


a moon-blanched land

by wildcard_47



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Anal Sex, Cuddling, Fixing a Farmhouse With Your Husband, Francis Crozier Gets His Groove Back, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Retirement, Sexy Porch Bathing, Sharing a Bed, War: What Is It Good For (PTSD in this case), making new friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26134618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: Almost a year after their return to England, Francis Crozier is tired of London society and tired of fighting an inexplicable restlessness. When given the chance to move to a seaside cottage with his former Second, James Fitzjames, how can he refuse?
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Lady Ann Ross/Sir James Clark Ross
Comments: 81
Kudos: 129
Collections: The Terror Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you don't know, my artist, the excellent **brainyraccoons** [made a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3LYHgDj5NAuw4wSpYvKBuZ?si=z-ipGI5FTWOOmQ-jHvhmbA) for this fic as well as some dope art. Feel free to crank up the tunes as you read!
> 
> Title from the Matthew Arnold poem [Dover Beach](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43588/dover-beach).

A poorly-muffled growl and the sound of Francis shifting on the mattress stirred James from sleep. Drowsy, confused, he blinked his eyes open to the world and squinted through the dark, trying to see what was wrong. 

It was early. Possibly before dawn. Outside their second-story window, faint purple light filtered through the curtains. As James peered across the rumpled blankets and toward the basin, where Francis had stalked immediately following his leap out of bed, he could discern nothing out of place. Francis was undertaking his usual ablutions, swiping a pale wet cloth across his body beneath his nightshirt. Although the torrent of grumbling suggested he was in a foul mood today, it was, by all appearances, the same routine Francis had kept every day of the nine months since their journey back to England.

As Francis dressed in haste, loudly stumbling over and then cursing down at his boots at one point, James considered rolling over and saying something, so that his First’s Irish temper might abate somewhat. Then he considered the sort of fight such an innocent volley might provoke this early in the morning, and the pointed inquiries Lady Ann and Sir James might have at breakfast in response, and immediately decided pretending to sleep through Francis’s departure was safer.

Sighing loudly, as if he were doing nothing more than rolling over into the empty space Francis had left amid the blankets, James burrowed his face into the middle of the down pillows, keeping his eyes closed and squiggling round like a mollusk plucked from the water till he had found some semblance of comfort again. In some ways, it was easy to be a layabout.

The room fell quiet, but Francis was still there; James could hear him breathing near the foot of the bed as he finished putting on his boots. Did he also imagine the slight weight against the arch of his foot as Francis steadied himself there—or the radiating warmth of calloused fingers curling against his calves?

Perhaps so. A floorboard creaked further down the hall, and suddenly it was as if the touch had never been there at all. 

Francis mumbled under his breath again, and spun on his heel, and shut the bedroom door behind him with a loud click. It was not until his footsteps had faded down the back staircase that James finally opened his eyes, and turned onto his back, and regarded the wainscoted ceiling with fullest confusion.

What on earth was the matter with that man?

##

Fuming, Francis stormed through the heath in the morning sun and all the way to the Naval College before his limp got too pronounced to continue, and he had to stop and rest. Even then, his mind rebelled at such fresh betrayal. Perhaps once he could walk more than two fucking miles before swaying on his feet, his traitorous body would finally become depleted and would pester him no longer. He’d no longer wake with James’s mouth pressed hot against the back of his neck, and his prick harder than iron in response. And said prick would cease snapping to attention—or worse, leaking in his smallclothes—every time Francis felt so much as a stiff breeze.

Christ, how the hell had this happened again?

Francis had, in many respects, become used to his body during his many years at sea, and had prided himself in his ability to keep his baser instincts at bay, whiskey notwithstanding. Even with Sophia, there had been no strange surge of passion in this manner. Not the way he had once thought. He had desired her greatly, yes. Had thought himself ardent and reckless at the time. But in hindsight, that heated summer paled in comparison to what now kept recurring, each morning without fail, for the last six months.

Every morning, he got his blood up as easily if he were a midshipman in his prime. Every night, the same. And sometimes he was as feverish as a ship’s boy whilst he slept. The dreams he had were amorphous yet unbearable, particularly when James was within arm’s length at all hours, and was likely to inquire into Francis’s ever-panicked state with kind, if overbearing concern. And what should Francis say in reply? _I thank you for your inquiry into my health, sir, but think on it no further; I possess a sudden excess of energy, no more. Perhaps some ancient Egyptian priestess could conjure up a black magic and relieve me of it before you retire to bed._

By rights, of the two of them, James was far more in need of physical consideration. James was the one who had wasted away to nearly nothing, and even now was prone to sudden chills and fevers. James was the man who could not keep his nightmares at bay unless he bunked with Francis, draped across his back or over his hip like an uncommonly large capuchin monkey.

No. This renewal of vigor was not the same as genuine suffering, nor was it at all like his now-distant affair with Sophia. And oh, sodding Christ, why in hell should Francis be comparing such utter, incontrollable folly to the hedonistic trysts he had welcomed and explicitly sought out in the first place?

Still breathing hard, hoping his stamina should flag after another two miles back to Ross’s, Francis got back to his feet, and set off again, at the same punishing pace.

##

After rising, washing, and fussing at his hair with the curling tongs for nearly twenty minutes, James finally went down to breakfast. Sir James and Lady Ann had already eaten, as had little Jim and his nurse, so James had a quiet meal alone with the newspaper.

When he was nearly finished, or had at least pushed his portions around on the plate for a suitable amount of time, Lady Ann reappeared, looking radiant in a voluminous pink day dress James was not certain if he had seen before.

“Good morning, Captain Fitzjames.”

“Good morning, Lady Ann.” 

She smiled at him as she got settled in her chair, accepting a glass of water from a footman with a murmured thanks. “And how do you fare this morning, sir?”

“Well enough, I suppose, thank you.”

“Not so well that you were also out of bed before the maids, I hope?”

The twinkle in her eye belied the inherent knowledge in this question. Yet James relaxed slightly when he realized it was not his own early wakings at which she meant to jest.

“You heard Captain Crozier stomping down the back stair.” A small, rueful smile came to his face before he could banish it. “Augh. I am sorry. I would speak to him further on the issue, only he insists he is quiet as a ship’s cat.”

“Perhaps so, and in that case, we have misjudged him greatly. I have never sailed, so it is quite possible that the ship’s cats of Captain Crozier’s experience were prone to growling and cursing like ice masters as they stalked through _Terror_ ’s hold.”

James hid a wider smile behind his hand, suddenly imagining a ship’s cat which possessed full faculties of speech, and could curse as colorfully as Tom Blanky at the masses of rats in its home. “T’would be a very fearsome cat, indeed.”

“Ah! Then you did not find feline behavior to be thus on _Erebus?”_

“Not at all, madam.” Usually, James’s hands shook wildly when he thought back to his last ship, but on this particular morning, Providence was kind; they remained unusually steady. “Fagin—that was the name of our resident mouser—was a dear girl, and a rather calm creature. Quite skilled in her duties as well as in avoiding trouble. I daresay she became as good a friend to me and to the other _Erebites_ as Neptune did Francis and his _Terrors_.” 

He meant to elaborate at length, and perhaps to share an innocent story about the time she had clawed LeVesconte on the knees, or had coughed up her dinner onto Doctor Stanley’s bed linens, but when he opened his mouth to speak, he found that the only words poised on his tongue were raw and sorrowful. He remembered having the men bury a small wrapped bundle in the ice hole, mere days before they abandoned ships, and how dreadfully Francis’s jaw had twitched and twitched after being informed that Neptune had met his end on a jagged rock face.

“I—forgive me, I seem to have, ah. Forgotten the story I meant to share.”

Lady Ann made no comment, merely reached for her water glass. “Then you should not mind if I very rudely change the subject?”

“By all means, let your rudeness abound.”

“Thank you. I have had a recent letter from a distant cousin, you see, and wished to speak with you of its contents. Would you be amenable to this discussion?”

“Of course, Lady Ann.” James gestured to the empty room; they had lingered so long that even the footmen had departed in order to finish their morning chores. “You have my ear.”

“Capital. Now then. This matter concerns a little cottage near the Dover coast. This is—or should I say _was_ —my third cousin’s property, until her recent yet generally expected passing.”

James opened his mouth again to offer his condolences, but the lady patted his outstretched hand and gave him a significant look, meaning they were unneeded, and he need not bother to obey convention on this point of fact.

“Of course I thank you for your sympathy, dear Captain Fitzjames, but she and I were never close, you understand. Cousin Isabelle was a spinster: unwed and had no children, and in truth, I did not know her very well at all. Which brings me to the central purpose of this conversation.”

“The Dover cottage, I presume.”

“La! You are a marvelous quick study. And yes: the Dover cottage, which was her home in life. Truthfully, it is in need of repair, as well as a, shall we say, spirited refreshing of the land around it. I am not certain if the acreage could yield a good crop, but again, I am no seasoned farmer. Perhaps I am very much in error.”

“And yet I imagine that should you ever wish to take up the trade, you would be quite successful,” James offered, as a compliment to her own quick-wittedness and ingenuity. “Your husband often brags about your household management skills.”

This caused her to blush, and to tut at him in a pleased way. “Hist, sir. No man has ever spake those words outright.”

James barked out a laugh before he could restrain himself.

She sat forward in her chair with a happy noise. “Let me be frank. I should like to know if you and Captain Crozier are interested in renting such a place, and making repairs to it, in lieu of spending Her Majesty’s idea of half-pay elsewhere on room and board.”

“If I and....?” James’s laughter died an ignoble death in the air. 

“Mm. Now let me tell you my full reasoning before you make your argument. My darling husband, whom I love eternally, is of the impression that he cannot voice this venture to his dear Captain Crozier, lest the man feel he were being turned outdoors at once, and should flee our home in the dead of night with his few possessions. But Captain Crozier has also reminisced warmly and often of his neighbors’ farm in Banbridge, if not of his boyhood home itself.”

A faint, very tentative memory bubbled up from the back of James’s consciousness. Francis, standing over his bed with a damp cloth, telling him a story of a farm. “Yes, I recall that. They had a boy his age. Collin—something.” Fairley? Feeny? “Folley. Collin Folley. Their family kept cows, did they not?”

Lady Ann’s smile was warm and knowing. “Indeed they did.”

“Ah.” Now James felt as if he and Lady Ann had arrived at some shared understanding. She seemed well aware of how Francis’s boyhood adventure with the Folley’s cow had ended, at any rate. “And thus, you believe Francis would be suited to country life, given how often he has praised it in past. Were he unable or unwilling to return to sea, that is.”

“I confess I believe he shall never again captain a Royal Navy vessel,” murmured Lady Ann. Although the words should have conjured up a spike of dread in James’s heart, all he felt was a dizzying sense of relief. “Obviously, that fact does not preclude him from captaining forever, but… ”

“Of course not.” James was both amazed and terrified to have so large a truth spoken aloud. Tom Blanky had said it in no uncertain terms on the _Enterprise_ , and now here was Ross’s wife, blithely echoing this unassailable notion. His fingers searched out the chain of his pocket watch; a nervous habit, despite the fact that the watch in question, a gift from Will, had been broken nearly four years, now. “I have told him so a hundred times. He could helm a whaling ship tomorrow if the idea gripped him.”

“Then you know precisely why this letter has moved me to extend an invitation. Who better for a complex job of this nature, and in such an idyllic setting? Francis is more restless than Sir James. And he so _aches_ to be useful again: to have renewed purpose.” She sighed, and glanced away. “Although Sir James and I have a dear life here—e’en a happy one, I daresay—I do not believe it is the type of life that Frank wishes to lead forever. As it is unsuited to his energetic nature.”

Suddenly overcome with nerves, James bit at the inside of his cheek. _What if Francis_ was _tired of staying here? What if Francis was tired of_ him?

Lady Ann’s eyes flashed with sudden sympathy. Leaning forward, she laid a careful hand across his forearm. “Please understand I am not prevailing on him or on you to accept this offer, should you not wish it. You and Frank are welcome and desired in our home for as long as you wish to stay. Only if you should prefer to go somewhere quieter, or to a place slightly removed from greater society, I wish you both to know that this option is open and available, should you decide to take it. Just as I believe that you are the best person to convince him of its rightness as a new home, when the subject happens to arise.”

“Wh—” James felt faint. Tried to nod. “Well. Thank you. It is—I know you offer it first out of love for him, when you could give it to anyone else. And for that you have my gratitude. Only I-I am not certain if Francis—”

“You need not relay the news to him immediately. Think on it for a fortnight. Even a month.” An impish smile came to the lady’s face. “Or consider taking a holiday there at your leisure, so you may come to know the area a little.”

“My last holiday was in eighteen forty-one,” James said flatly.

She laughed, and swatted at his arm. “All the better that you require a new one.”

In the outer room, the front door swung closed, and a heavy-booted tread in the corridor signalled that Francis had finally returned home, and had not rung for the footman to let him in. When Francis limped into the doorway, he was flushed and sweating under his hat and dark coat, and looked a fright. James wanted to leap to his feet and demand to know what Francis had been up to, and why he was limping so awfully. 

Before James could speak, or Francis could move, Lady Ann gestured calmly to the table. “Captain Crozier, I declare your color is far too high! Come and sit down at once. I shall have Smith fetch you a glass of water and the tea service to settle your stomach.”

Although Francis grumbled and frowned and clearly hated being fussed over, he obeyed. James was glad to see Lady Ann mother the man in this way. It made him reflect more kindly on her invitation than perhaps he would have otherwise. Perhaps she was right about this, as well. 

Perhaps he and Francis, at the very least, could use a holiday.

##

“All right, James, out with it.”

Francis had allowed Lady Ann to fuss over him in the dining room, and to keep him there like a willful child until he had eaten a visible serving of his dinner. He had not asked why she and Fitzjames were conversing alone and so seriously in the middle of the morning, nor had he bullied James about his peaked complexion or the fact that his hands were trembling again. They only got to trembling like that when he spoke about _Erebus._

What Francis would _not do_ was keep silent once they were alone together. And now that they were settled in the drawing room for the afternoon, and Lady Ann was in her own parlor with little Jim, ostensibly spending time with him as well as helping the lad write out a few letters alongside his tutor, he intended to make use of every moment.

James sat up from his reclined position on the sofa, where he had been fiddling idly with his pocket watch. “Out with what?”

“Whatever it is you’re trying _not_ to say, because you think I’ll be upset.” Francis kicked at one tassel of the ornate Persian rug with the toe of his boot. “I know you and Lady Ann were speaking about me, earlier.”

“Why would you think that? Because we were sitting together at the table, having perfectly reasonable conversation at half past ten?”

“Obviously not.” Good Christ, no. His body actually wanted to react to this farcical pronouncement. Francis could have laughed, were he not so utterly stunned. “Don’t be so damned facetious, man.”

“Rather think I have earnt the right to be as jocular as I wish. You inquired as to whether a conversation took place, and I shall freely admit that it did. Lady Ann bid me good morning. I bid her the same. She mentioned that a rather vociferously-swearing ship’s cat traverses her back stairs…”

“Oh, damn your ears,” Francis hissed, flushing red. He would have to put his boots on by the door, next time. “She said nothing of the sort, James!”

“Francis, I assure you she did. You have a very loud step. Naturally, I told her a few stories of Fagin, to soothe her concerns.”

“God in heaven,” groaned Francis, and put his face in both hands. Of course James would attempt to explain away his wanderings using some damned story from the expedition. Of course he would tell Ann that they were still berthing together, when for all she knew, James was still sleeping in the second guestroom. “You could have just _lied._ ”

“To your dear friend’s lady wife? Are you mad?” James shoved the pillow he had been reclining against to one side, and got to his feet, moving toward the drawing room windows, which looked out onto the rest of the heath. “And for all you know, it is your _dear James_ who gave the secret away in the first place. God knows you have made no qualms about your recent restlessness.”

“If I am obviously restless _,_ as you so charge, then perhaps your next conversation will center around the reasons why you return from your _long walks_ with dirt crusted round your fingernails and green clippings on your jacket.”

“You wish to speak with me about long walks,” James parroted in an even voice. “Very well, then. Tell me why you return each morning with a limp that had you confined to our berth on the _Enterprise_.”

Francis’s cock was half-hard again—distracting him, distracting him! He quickly turned to the nearest bookshelf in order to conceal this obscenity. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“Oh no?” James’s voice rose in pitch. “You don’t recall _breaking your foot in five places_ during the long walk?”

“I didn’t break it!”

“Ah, yes, by all means, share your expert medical opinion.”

“It wasn’t _broken._ Merely _fractured._ ”

“Oh, of course, forgive me for misstating the facts. Because five _fractures_ are so much better and so very different, obviously.”

James snorted out a breath through his nose; Francis waited with bated breath for a retort that did not materialize. When it did not come immediately, he risked a glance left. James was not absorbed in their repartee, apparently, but instead was peering out the window with a rather puzzled expression.

“I thought little Jim was in with Lady Ann to-day?”

“He is,” snapped Francis, just as he spied the distant figures walking far across the back lawn: the little boy and his tutor, both in their spring coats. They seemed to have given up studying for the afternoon and were now very occupied in building a small structure with sticks. Or perhaps playing at swordfighting; Francis could not tell from this distance. “Least, I thought he was.”

A high-pitched yelp and a glass-shattering noise from the other end of the house made them both turn; as one, they rushed for the door. James got there first, charging down the corridor with Francis on his heels, but before they could burst into the small parlor, Francis heard a second, much more familiar voice, and snatched for the collar of James’s jacket, restraining him from entering.

“...a very pretty dress,” Ross was saying now. The door to the front parlor was cracked open; from the hallway, Francis now glimpsed his friend within, wearing his usual work uniform as he knelt down next to the sofa in the far corner. “Though I think you might also look well in…”

Lady Ann, reclining on the divan like an ancient vizier, looked both annoyed and charmed by this compliment. “James, dear, if you continue to break my mother’s wine glasses and to make beastly jokes about my day dresses, I may call forth the rest of this house to act as our _chaperons_.”

Ross, snickering like a schoolboy as he shrugged out of his jacket, tossed his head in an artful way, and affected a rather realistic snort-and-whinny before he sat down on the divan, next to his wife’s hip. “But I am _your_ beast, darling. Perhaps even your stallion. Shall we go riding together?”

It was at this point that Francis’s overtaxed mind finally caught up with his ears. Muffling a panicked noise, he yanked Fitzjames backwards by both sleeves, and marched them upstairs to their bedroom posthaste. It was not until the door had shut behind them that he finally released James’s arm, and let out a shaky breath.

“Golly,” muttered Fitzjames, in the faint rasp of someone who had experienced a shock.

“Don’t!” Francis meant to sound stern, but his voice cracked over the command, and a desperate hiccupping sound wormed its way out of his throat as he raised one finger in warning. “James. No.”

“How dare you.” James was already snickering; he had to put a hand to the bed for support. His eyes gleamed with visible mirth. “I am surrounded by naysayers.”

The wild cackle that burst from Francis’s throat took him completely by surprise; within seconds, the pair of them were collapsed face-down against the quilt, heaving and sputtering, in complete hysterics. They laughed so well and for so long that Francis’s stomach ached like the dickens. Every time he thought it was over, he merely thought the word _neigh-sayer,_ or worse, met James’s dark, knowing gaze across the pillows, and was flung back into the sea of delight. He laughed until his legs wobbled and his breath came in great sharp gulps.

“Oh, g-good Christ,” James kept gasping between rounds of yelping giggles, his face now as pink as Ann’s dress. “Francis, I can’t stop. I can’t.”

“You—y’have to,” groaned Francis, who was equally unable to calm himself. “God’s blood. We’ve supper at three bells.”

Sprawled on his back on the bed, James was still hooting with laughter, swiping at damp eyes with one hand and clutching his heaving stomach with the other. His face was flushed. “Christ. I’ve—pissed myself a bit, actually. Jesus Christ.”

Francis made a strangled noise, and glanced down at his own trousers, which now boasted a noticeable wet patch in the front. The ardor from before had disappeared entirely, replaced by a familiar, calm quietude. Had he genuinely released during his laughing fit? “Don’t look at my trousers, either, and I’ll not mention it.”

This time, James’s laughter faded into something rich and warm as Francis clambered forward and lay down next to him.

“D’you think they’re expecting again?” asked James, after a moment or two of staring up at the ceiling. “Little Jim’s a bit old to be lacking siblings.”

Francis glanced right, surprised by the question. “Can’t say I’ve considered it before now. Perhaps they are.” He made a thoughtful noise. If Ann were in a delicate condition, it might also explain Ross’s ardor. He didn’t think married couples were still having that sort of fun, nearly six years in. “Sophia might know the answer.”

“Well. You needn’t shock Miss Cracroft by asking directly. Just another question I was idly wondering this morning. Among other things.”

The smile that spread across Francis’s face threatened to give him lockjaw. “And just what, precisely, were you wondering over, hm?”

“Actually,” and when James turned to meet his gaze, his dark eyes dancing with lingering amusement, Francis felt a sudden shiver traverse up and down his spine. “I was thinking we ought to take a small holiday. Since we’ve been staying here so long, and we’ve had no word from the Admiralty. What do you think?”


	2. Chapter 2

On the last night of their stay at Ross’s, there were no hideous farewell parties, no maudlin toasts, nor even a whisper of company who lived outside Eliot Place. In fact, by the time supper ended, and they had retired to the drawing room, it was just the four of them. Little Jim had already gone to bed, after being tired out by a particularly good day next to the river, while Nanny Wyeth had departed upstairs with him, claiming the same.

With Ann’s blessing, Francis took the opportunity to speak to Ross in private about the upcoming repairs—or, in truth, the repairs Francis sought to have finished before they had even set foot inside their new lodgings. As he spoke, he ticked items from the page, though he had long since memorized the lot. “Roof and floor repairs are finished. Walls patched. Shelving in. And you said you’ve heard from the stonemason about the front walk. What else is there… oh, the thrice-damned blasted parlor!”

“What’s gone wrong with the parlor?”

“Nothing,” Francis retorted. Well. According to Sophia, who had supposedly visited the place many years before, the wallpaper was hideously out of date, and James would likely want it taken down at once. Which meant Francis should have had it removed when the kitchen walls got whitewashed, only he had forgotten to ask, and now James was going to see it and would try to re-paper the damn room himself…

“I say, old man, you do realise you’re speaking aloud, eh?”

“Oh, damn it,” grumbled Francis, who had not, and felt shame curl deep within his stomach.

But Ross did not seem to mind that Francis had just slandered his wife’s departed cousin’s attempts at decorating. “Come now, I’m certain Fitzjames is not as lamed as all that.”

“He hides the worst of it,” Francis retorted at once. “You’ve seen him.”

“Yes, I saw him in the garden just the other day, going about his usual strengthening exercises.” Ross gave him a puzzled look, as if Francis’s vehemence on the issue was completely mislaid. “Surely there’s no need to shoe the poor fellow before the season.”

“There will be plenty of work to do once we arrive.” This was not an exaggeration, as there was plenty of work to accomplish both in and around the house. In truth, Francis was bursting with ideas around the fields. Perhaps they would have some trees, or a crop of….something. Whatever it was that grew well in Dover besides grass and flowers. “Merely wanted the large repairs out of the way, so that it was easier settling in.”

“Course. Jolly good.” Ross opened his mouth to speak further, then, surprising them both, closed it again without saying a word.

Francis watched this occurrence with deepest suspicion. “You’re awful at keeping secrets, you know.”

“Slander from my Second,” deadpanned Ross, but flushed high in his cheeks. “I say.”

“Well, you are! And it’s obvious. And if I’m to be a godfather twice over, then you ought to tell me now, so I’ll not have to decipher it through letters after an entire bloody fortnight.”

Ross’s flushed, unforthcoming look had been replaced by open-mouthed surprise. In the few seconds of silence that followed, Francis only had time to imagine if Fitzjames’ assumption was in error before his old friend shoved him in the shoulder, and began to laugh. 

“How the hell did you figure that out, old man? Good Lord, for a Captain in active service, you’ve a damned keen eye!”

Surprised and pleased as Ross tightened his hold, Francis just grinned, making a noncommittal noise.

“Well. Obviously the news is not only mine to share, but I—” Ross bit his lip as he released Francis’s arm and stepped back a couple of paces, looking every inch as delighted as he did when they were charting course toward unmapped terrain. “I say, Frank, I am very pleased to admit it aloud. Very pleased indeed.”

“Seems only natural that you should be,” offered Francis, indicating with a hand that they could return to the drawing room whenever it became convenient. “All well, I hope?”

“Quite. And of course you may discuss this with Fitzjames whenever—ah,” Ross trailed off as they approached the open doorway, giving Francis a furtive grin. “Seems my wife has already seen fit to inform him of it.”

Francis peered inside. Here, Ann and Fitzjames sat together on the sofa. A wry moue animated Ann’s mouth as she shifted in her seat, one arm now clasped across her middle as she spoke. Francis realized that what he assumed to be the normal swell of petticoats was clearly very different, as she smoothed her skirts taut across a very round protrusion. “At this rate I shall have no peace at all till my condition is resolved.”

Fitzjames raised both eyebrows. “Truly? It is that noticeable?”

“Oh, dear Captain Fitzjames. Imagine housing a daring aerialist who practices at all hours of the night. Here—give me your hand if you do not believe me. I allowed dear Aunty Sophia to preview our new arrival just this afternoon. So too must his Uncle James be introduced. Would that shock you terribly?”

“Well. No.” James appeared stunned, but after a moment, he reached out a hand in kind. “T’would be an honour.”

Scooting closer, she took his hand, and placed Fitzjames’s fingers onto the fabric of her dress, guiding it to the roundest part of her stomach before ceasing all movement. For a moment, Fitzjames stared very intently over the back of the sofa before he startled in his seat, and glanced over at Ann, eyes widening.

“Good Christ. I—I felt it. Did I not?”

“Yes.” Ann smiled at James, who beamed back at her in turn, so brightly that the sight of such visceral happiness caused Francis’s throat to tighten. “And the little thing shall continue quickening for a while yet. Particularly when you speak to him.”

Gently, she adjusted James’s hand, so that the curve of his palm made contact with her protruding form; James made a choked noise. His mouth fell open. “He can hear me? Truly?”

“While the doctor remains unconvinced, a mother’s instinct is never wrong. And I will tell you that this creature absolutely squirrels in anticipation every time you start a new story.”

James was still smiling. Francis could not help treasuring the sight of such uninhibited joy on his face. Probably the babe had learnt the word  _ Shangkiang  _ by now, and was clever enough to want to avoid it.

As they watched, presumably the tenant within began to move with added urgency; James’s eyes widened even further.

“Appreciate your allowing such an imposition,” he murmured to Ann after a long silence. “I confess I have never experienced anything like it.”

“Well. In many respects you are happier for it. Most men of Discovery Service do not have the fortitude to experience such things.” Lady Ann gave James a fond look before releasing his hand, and glancing over to the doorway. “Frank? Shall I introduce you, also?”

Francis went rigid with fear.

“Your newest godchild wishes to say hello to you,” she continued lightly. “Since he has neither pen nor paper nor the ability to speak, I would have him show you his manners as best we can.”

“Go on, old man.” Behind Francis, Ross shoved at his shoulder, grinning. Francis had never seen such a proud father in all his life. “Time and tide willing, eh?”

Stepping into the room, Francis scoffed at Ross’s attempt at humour. “Highly doubt Baffin and Back thought of spying anything of the sort through _their_ looking-glasses.”

“Of that we are all glad,” said Lady Ann—who, Francis noted, was no longer touching James. Fitzjames had now returned to his end of the settee, lost in thought, palpating at the flesh of his palm with one thumb. “Come now, sir. He may settle soon.”

Attempting to ignore the nerves prickling at the back of his neck, Francis gave Ann a weak smile, and moved forward to sit next to her. In many respects, he thought as he took his seat, he was luckier than most sailors. The marriages of his closest friends had proven to be good ones. Both Ann and Esther were affectionate to him in their own ways. Ann in particular had always been a kind and attentive friend over the years. Kinder, perhaps, than Francis deserved.

“Frank,” came the urging, followed by a small hand pressing his. He glanced right; met Ann’s searching gaze. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” he answered, as Ann placed his hand to her dress. Sighing, Francis attempted to clear his mind of melancholic thoughts, deciding to dwell only on this child-who-was-not-yet-a-child. Perhaps another spirited boy like little Jim might emerge, bearing his mother’s easy humor and Ross’s eyes. Or the babe could be a delicate girl who, in a year or two, should boast Ann’s blonde curls, combined with all her father’s charms. How long did it take children to grow hair? Did they have it from birth? Francis realized, with some dismay, that this was an idea he had never before considered. All told, he knew very little about children and even less about little girls. He remembered more than enough about elder sisters and the importance of hat feathers to last a lifetime. But if this babe were a girl, and ever came to Francis with questions about ladies’ hair styles, he’d not be able to answer them. Christ, he’d probably have to enlist Fitzjames and the damn curling tongs for help, after which his Second would never let him hear the end of it. Although the little one would not call Fitzjames  _ his second,  _ obviously _.  _ Francis supposed James would be her Uncle, also. Uncle James who could wrangle her bird’s nest of hair into some semblance of order after a long afternoon at play. And who had probably caused all the mess and rumpus in the first place.

“Look there,” came a soft voice to his right; behind him, James leaned in, pressed his palm over Francis’s, and guided it an inch or so upwards. “Francis,  _ look _ . Positively giddy to meet you. I can see it all the way from here.”

Under their joined hands moved a small, wriggly form similar to that of a sightless puppy. Unseen, the creature kept shifting round its current cabin, tapping at the barrier between their hands and the world in clear impatience.

“Think he’s a girl, actually,” Francis murmured aloud, mostly to Ann, who was watching the movement of the child she carried with such knowing tenderness that it caused tears to prick at his eyes. 

“Do you?” she asked, an audible note of hope in her voice.

“Yes.” The tickling sensation behind his nose came again, and the subsequent tears threatened to spill over, now. “Sorry. I, ah. Don’t know why I said that.”

Horrified at himself, Francis was going to remove his hand from Ann’s person and perhaps flee the room entirely, but James’s fingers still pressed against his wrist, so he could not. Instead, tucking his chin into the dimple of Francis’s shoulder through his jacket and pressing his other palm very discreetly to Francis’s lower back, James drew closer, and said nothing. But he stayed like this for a long moment, perhaps even several minutes, until the panic lifted and only the wonder remained.

Beneath their hands, the child kicked twice more, and then its circus of acrobatics quieted into calmness, all movements now resembling no more than a soft flutter.

“Thank you,” Francis whispered, though he knew not who he whispered it to: the little girl who would be his new godchild, her mother, her dear father, or the equally dear friend whose fingers splayed warm along the middle of his spine, grounding him. Steering him. He felt James’s heartbeat thudding somewhere around his left shoulder, as it so often did in the middle of the night, and was oddly comforted.

“No gratitude is required, dear Frank.” Gently, Ann removed their hands from her person, now pressing them between her own palms, which were soft and small. “I only wished for you three to be acquainted, and now you have been.”

“Hear, hear,” echoed Ross. 

“And we shall miss you both very awfully.”

Behind him, James withdrew; Francis felt the panic from before surge back all at once before he heard a light laugh. When he glanced backwards, James was merely huffing in an amused way as he returned to his place at the other end of the sofa.

“Now, that must be an egregious falsehood, dear Ann. I imagine you and Sir James will be only too glad to have the house to yourselves once more.”

“Well, I do not mind saying I look forward to having breakfast in my dressing gown again,” offered Ross in an innocent manner, causing his wife to sigh in a pained way, and for Francis to groan, “Ross, you absolute  _ idiot _ .”

##

_ Dearest Dundy, _

_ I hope this letter finds you well. How is my favourite boardinghouse treating you these days? Daresay you would be rather proud of your old Fitzy, for he has become quite the day-labourer in the past fortnight. I am certain that scraping away old wallpaper, re-plastering two walls, and pasting on new wallpaper qualifies me for at least one of the trades at any rate. Captain Crozier perhaps disagrees and might say I could no more qualify as a wallpaperist’s mate than I could an AB, but we shall see what other mischiefs I can get up to before he notices I have rearranged the sitting room furniture out of sheer ennui. _

_ Have I updated you on our journey since my last letter? The South Eastern Railway constructed a line all the way here in the years since we have been away, so our journey to the wilds of Dover Town Station took a mere two hours and forty minutes. Imagine traveling from London to the coast in less time than it takes to enjoy a leisurely lunch. Well, perhaps  _ you _ might finish lunch well before our journey ended, but for we few who are missing additional molars, an overbaked loaf from the dinner car represents a gamble of the highest order. _

The slam of the front door announced that Francis was back from his morning constitutional. Biting his lip to hide a smile, James put aside his letter to Dundy and got up, stretching slightly before making his way toward the kitchen.

The front parlor where he had been sitting had been re-wallpapered at Francis’s behest, from a vivid flock damask whose peeling faded citron color reminded James of spoilt lemon water, to a lovely and more sedate Goodland pattern that reminded James of forget-me-nots, or of the way the ice in Baffin Bay had gleamed against the water in summer. Francis had seemed pleased with the choice, at any rate, perhaps because James had not subjected him to the violence of Rococo columns, fleur-de-lis, or cabbage roses.

Yes, he was proud of the repairs they had made to the parlor. Possibly because it had been the only part of the house in which he had been allowed to labor. Apart from the unpacking, inventory, accounting, and various other master’s mate duties, James could not so much raise a hand to volunteer help than Francis would sweep over and demand he surrender his hard-won task. Puzzling, and altogether vexing.

James made his way from the parlor through the main sitting room and into the gleaming-white kitchen, where Francis was pouring himself a glass of water from the basin they kept near the windows.

At the moment, Francis’s shirt was soaked through with sweat and his trouser legs were six inches deep in mud. The expression of annoyance he wore now was similar to the look he had assumed each time LeVesconte ate through an entire plate of biscuits at a wardroom gathering. James hid his smile with a clearing of his throat. “I take it we have been tilling at windmills, sir?”

“Tilling at bloody awful root systems, more like,” growled Francis, although his dirt-streaked face glowed with poorly-concealed pride as well as dark clay. “Took me hours just to unearth half the remains of that god-damned overgrown boxwood. Full of gnats and spiders and the foulest little biting buggers, to boot.”

“I could help you with them,” James offered again, attempting to keep the note of desperation from his voice.

Francis held up a hand. “No!” 

They stared at each other.

“I mean—I thank you, but it—is singularly vexing. And I shan’t have you dirty your fine waistcoat with the bloody boxwood brambles.”

Hm. Perhaps this was something Francis wanted to do on his own. Hack and swear and kick at the roots till they were all yanked from the earth with brute force. Or perhaps till he had worn out his full restlessness. James still decided he ought to put up a token fuss.

“Francis, I have had this waistcoat since I was a mid. If it was ever fine, it remains so no longer. The stitches are coming loose and the embroidery is pilling.”

“E’en more reason you must keep it in careful condition.” Francis seemed only now to realise that a large spread graced the table; James had laid a cold luncheon out no more than ten minutes earlier. “That looks good, there.”

“Yes,” James answered drily, gesturing for Francis to wash his hands at the basin as he set a fresh glass of water next to Francis’s place. “Thought you and I might break our fast together.”

“Oh.” And now Francis turned surprised, guilty eyes on him. “You’ve not eaten?”

“Little nosh of breakfast, hours ago,” lied James, who had woken a second time around mid-morning with his stomach in knots, and could not choke down more than a glass of water and a few apple slices to ease the hunger pains. “Seemed silly to eat a full meal alone.”

Francis inclined his head, and dried his hands with the towel that lay next to the basin. “Well. I’ll not keep you from having conversation during the dinner hour. Though I am certain you’re tired of hearing about the boxwoods.”

James made a considering noise as they sat down at the table. “I could tell you of the letter I’m writing to Dundy.”

The smile that broke over Francis’s face caused the backs of James’s hands to burn hot. 

“By all means, tell me news of Dundy. I confess I may even miss his chewing loudly in my ear whilst egging you on about the  _ Clio _ .” 

James inadvertently drooled a mouthful of water down his shirtfront, so great was his shock at the joke. While Francis hid a laugh behind his napkin, James pretended at great ire amid a mild bout of coughing. “A boldfaced lie, sir! Most disrespectful to the French, sir!”

##

Soaked with sweat and breathing heavy after hours of digging, Francis leaned on the battered shovel currently staked into the dirt, eyeing the long, wide trench in the ground with exhaustion and a fair amount of pride. He’d done it. He’d really done it.

He felt slightly dyspeptic, and a fine tremor lingered in his blistered hands as he sat down directly next to the shovel, groping to his left to find the nearby canteen. A long paralyzing ache lingered in his lower back and legs as he reached forward. He’d be lucky if he could sleep for the stiffness.

Well. Francis couldn’t feel overly guilty about working himself so hard; not when it meant he would save James from the worst of the hard labor. James did not deserve to spend the first several weeks in a new home wrestling tree stumps above ground and plowing a field for crops. He might have recovered from the worst of his Arctic wounds, but his health would always be delicate as a result of all they had endured. Francis knew this better than any man alive. He would ensure James should never need to worry about the house in any capacity. He would not allow James to overexert himself with banal physical labor. 

Thus, he was ready to take up all manner of tasks too difficult for James to bear while they were staying in this house. It was a worthy effort if it meant James would be out of danger. It was worth a few days of lingering stiffness and exhaustion on his part.

Taking another small sip of water, which was all his constitution could abide without inducing vomiting, Francis heard rather than saw the back door open, and James’s telltale footsteps in the grass. 

“Francis?” he called, soft.

Francis was still very out of breath. “Ah—a moment.”

He only needed a moment. Then he could stand again. Then he could gather what remained of the boxwoods, drag them to the crest of the hill, and burn them along with a pile of old leaves and vines.

“You’re flushed,” noted James. He did not sit down. “Are you all right?”

Removing his hat, Francis nodded to show that he understood, and swiped at his heated cheeks as if this action alone would wash the dried crust of salt from his skin. “‘S fine.”

James was quiet. After a short pause, he reached over and draped something blissfully cool and wet across Francis’s bare head and neck; Francis startled and then groaned as he realized what it was. Hand towel of some kind, soaked in water.

“....shivering. Have you had any water?”

“Erm.” Francis could not remember how much water he had drunk in the past few hours. “Yes?”

“Here. This may help.”

Before Francis could answer, a stream of tepid water was poured over his head and shoulders, causing him to gasp and then exhale in relief. The cloth at the back of his neck and shoulders was sticking to him like a wet Welsh wig, but it was so comforting he could not bring himself to care about how stupid he looked. After another minute, he realized he still had the canteen in his hand, and took a larger swig from it.

They remained this way for several minutes: Francis sprawled out in the dirt like a schoolboy sitting in a field as his breathing returned to normal, and James standing at his side, pouring water over his head and shoulders in intervals and encouraging him to drink from the canteen. After a long interval of watching bugs and birds dart through the open fields, James finally spoke.

“Think Dundy and I got heatsick at least once a month on the  _ Clio. _ ”

Francis could only hum out a noncommittal reply.

“Most of the time we just stripped down to our linens, went for an afternoon swim to cool off.” A short pause. “Not as if we have that option, here.”

“Hm.” Francis took another drink of warm water. Normally, he’d have some sort of reply to that, but it seemed uncharitable to mock the man for past displays of vanity, given that he could hardly speak around the dryness in his throat. Not to mention given how considerate James was currently being.

James did sit down now, lowering himself slowly to the ground before stretching his legs to their full length, and leaning his weight back into his hands. “Francis, why will you not let me help?”

“I do,” argued Francis at once. “You hung the wallpaper.”

“Nearly a fortnight ago,” James agreed, “and you only agreed I could do so because I was the only one of us tall enough to reach the far corner on the ladder.”

“Well, then you can—there are plenty of other hobbies you may seek out if you wish. Surely you don’t want to spend our few weeks in the country pulling down wallpaper and—”

“Francis, I do not need _hobbies,_ as I am neither an old man nor a lazy child. Give me an _occupation_. Let me contribute!”

Guilt clawed at Francis’s chest; James must have seen the weight of it in his face, because he leaned forward, poking at Francis’s sweat-soaked sleeve to drive home his point.

“Good Christ, Francis, this is meant to be  _ our  _ house, if only for a while. Had we shared a ship, you’d have assigned me duties straightaway. When you commanded an expedition entire, the same. If you should want to—to exert yourself in such a forceful manner to prove that you are capable of the work, I will not take that from you. But by God, I demand an occupation in turn. Let me be useful. Please.”

Francis turned and met James’s gaze head-on. James, who was searching his face with a clear abiding longing, the sort of forlorn expression Francis had not seen in many years. Perhaps not since the night they abandoned ships, and James had looked at him with all the fearful wonder of a middie, begging Francis to tell him they would survive.

_ “Tell me we shall get home, Francis.” Sitting in Terror’s Great Cabin the evening before they walked, alone with naught but the ship’s log and Francis’s few remaining possessions, there were no more preparations to be made except for studying the maps. Sitting so close at the wardroom table their knees could touch, James clung hard to Francis’s mittened hand, biting at the inside of his lips in a way that Francis now knew signified nerves. His Second was terrified. He knew the walk to be a death knell. Francis could see the rabbit-gleam of wild fear in his eyes even if he had not heard it in his voice. “Tell me, or I shall go mad.” _

_ “We will lead the men back, James.” The words rough as gravel stones in his mouth. Francis could hardly gut them out. “Together. Let me hear it.” _

_ “Yes.” James expelled a stuttering breath, swiping water from his lashes with the back of his other hand. He was trembling visibly, even considering the chill of the now-barely-warm brazier. “We will. Lead them back.” _

_ Francis tightened his grip on James’s hand, attempting to transfer all the inner resolve he had into James’s fingers. “That’s a promise you’ve made me, now. Once more.” _

_ “We will lead the men back,” said James, his voice steadier this time. “Together.” _

“All right, James. Enough,” growled Francis, wringing out water from the now-humid cloth that was still draped over his neck. “You’re right.”

“I am?” James’s face brightened like the rising sun. “Oh, now you must repeat yourself, Captain Crozier.”

“Utter imbecile.” Francis rolled his eyes, and shoved his Second in the shoulder. “I said you are right.” In a quieter voice. “And I am sorry.”

“Long as you concede that I am in the right,” declared James with a toothy grin, gaining some manner of his old rakish confidence as he handed the dipper back to Francis. “Frequently and often.”

“Well. Perhaps you can—plant a garden of something in place of these damned boxwoods, eh?” Francis wondered at other tasks James could take up around the house. Or if he could become accomplished in a true hobby and find his interest there. “Build a library. Take up the culinary arts. Learn the pianoforte. Is any of that occupation enough?”

He realized too late that his voice had gained a petulant sort of sneer, but James did not mention this, or perhaps did not take note of it, given how exhausted Francis sounded. He just cast a considering eye over the space where the boxwoods had sprawled, staring at the broken ground till the heat lines became visible over it, shimmering gently in the air as they watched the last of the bugs zip over the upturned field. 

“Perhaps I shall begin with a few flowers,” was all James said. “Or a vegetable patch.”

##

A slight crash from the parlor caused Francis to wake; when he realized there was no one next to him, he leapt out of bed, only stopping to pull on his dressing gown before racing toward the sound.

In the parlor, he found Fitzjames standing alone in the middle of the room. Dressed only in his nightshirt, his hair was a mess, he was shivering from cold and yet his eyes were still dimmed with sleep. Currently, he was also shouting orders at the window at near-quarterdeck volume.

“No! You will not take him!” James was gesticulating toward the wall with the base of a candlestick as if he meant to slit an unseen opponent from neck to navel; perhaps he thought he had his saber. Francis thanked God and Christ and all the saints that he had not actually tried to light any candles or lamps as James thrust his weapon forward into the rope of the curtains. “Step back, damn you! Step back  _ right now _ .”

Obviously he could not wake James from such an agitated state. Francis cast his eyes around for a useful object, saw a small bell lying on a nearby side table and seized upon it, ringing it four times in poor imitation of a ship’s bell. Early on, he had discovered that incongruent sounds were the best way to coax James back to bed and out of whatever nightmares had gripped him so bodily. “James,” he called, soft. “To me, James.”

James went very still; after a moment, he dropped the silver candlestick, whipping around toward the doorway. “Francis? Wh...”

“Here,” called Francis, moving backwards down the corridor, still keeping him in sight while staying several steps ahead. “Quickly. This way.”

“Francis.” James’s voice had quieted; he was at least following this time. Francis could hear his steps even if he could not quite see the man in the dark from this distance. “Christ. What’ve they done to you?”

“‘M all right. Come and see. It’s all over now.”

Slowly, Francis led them back to the bedroom; only when James was within the doorway of their room did Francis finally touch him, putting a gentle hand to his lower back and directing him toward his side of the bed. “Here, James. Sleep.”

Stumbling around the foot of the bed, clearly not awake in any sense of the word, James reached the nightstand and fumbled under it for the piss pot. Quickly, he relieved himself and returned the item to its usual place. Even in the dark, Francis tried not to watch him too closely. But he did not move further until James had crawled back into bed and reached out to the other pillow, obviously confused as to why he found no one next to him. 

Perhaps the worst was over. Finally, Francis allowed himself to relax, and slid in next to James, automatically opening his arms as he adjusted the quilts over them once more. “Stubborn man. You’re chilled through.”

Shivering visibly, James moved closer till his face was buried in the shoulder of Francis’s nightshirt and he was enclosed in Francis’s arms. What little Francis saw of James’s expression in the dark moved him deeply. His brow was knitted in fear and his lower lip wobbled and the sight was both so sweet and so pathetic that Francis reacted before he could think. Smoothing errant strands away from James’s face, he leaned down and dropped a quick kiss into James’s hair, hating himself for such unthinking folly even as he knew he did it to offer comfort. T’was a reckless decision, but at least not a memorable one. James never recalled these episodes, come morning. And typically he’d settle for the night once he felt safe, and realised he was not alone.

“‘M sorry I lost you,” James whispered, and tightened his grip at the back of Francis’s nightshirt. “‘M sorry.”

“You’ve done no such thing, James. I’m right here.” Shushing any further speech, Francis continued petting his back in long, languid strokes till James’s agitated huffs turned into slow, languorous breaths, and he became relaxed and pliant in his arms. “Sleep, now. Stay with me, hm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read [The Brief History of Wallpaper](https://www.vam.ac.uk/articles/a-brief-history-of-wallpaper) and did a ton of research on Wallpaper History in order to write in two seconds of detail. LOL. [Here's the pattern I was thinking of for the farmhouse parlor, as well as some others that were popular during the 1850s.](https://www.vam.ac.uk/articles/wallpaper-design-reform) You can see why the flowers and the giant columns would not make the cut for Francis.
> 
> Apparently, contributing factors of sleepwalking include sleep deprivation, stress, and travel. Gee, I wonder why James would have any of those...


	3. Chapter 3

When James awoke late the next morning, he was alone, yet the certainty of having dropped off with Francis beside him—holding him—comforting him— was so vivid he could practically feel the man‘s breath still ghosting along his hairline.

And there had been a kiss. Had there not? A kiss, feather-light, and three words. “Stay with me.”

Groaning, refusing to face his blurriest sleep hallucinations-turned-fantasies when it was not even half past seven, James put the pillow over his face and turned on his side, deciding to go back to bed.

##

“Brace yourself,” said Francis when he returned from fetching the mail, appearing as resigned as James had seen in quite some time. In one hand, he brandished a letter which featured a large heraldic crest. “We’ve been invited to visit the neighbors.”

“Oh, no.” By the sharp-eyed glare of disappointment Francis gave him, they were both fully aware of the irony in this situation: Francis informing him they were duty-bound to attend and he, the once-renowned socialite, absolutely dreading it. “Can’t we beg off?”

“This says it’s from a lieutenant-general, so no. Have  _ you _ ever turned down so much as a teatime invitation from a Vice Admiral?”

“Successfully or unsuccessfully?”

Francis sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You see my point.”

“But he’ll be such an utter  _ windbag _ ,” whined James, affecting a full-on pout. “Telling all his war stories and going on about his final post and naming the many famous socialites with whom he’s well-acquainted.”

Francis raised an eyebrow, clearly aware of the inherent joke but sidestepping it entirely. “Now you’re just teasing me.”

“Never that. Merely waiting to discover which of his China stories you most despise, so I may have him tell that one immediately and with elaborate relish.”

This brought a small smile to Francis’s face. “Well, he’s far too old to have been to China, at any rate.”

“How do you know he’s old? Beyond the rank?”

Wordlessly, Francis handed him the letter; James took one look at the penmanship and blanched. 

_ Dear Sir Francis Crozier and Sir James Fitzjames,  _

_ I hope this missive finds you well as you become settled in your new lodgings. As your nearest neighbores and preemminent members of this smallest community those in my householde and I are duty-bound to make the usual introductions. I therefore extend an invitation for you both to join us on Thursday 28th Apr 1430h so we may become further acquainted. Enclose your response no later than Thursday 21st Apr 0800h if this is amenable. Tea will be served at precisely 1500h or “six bells.”  _

_ Regards,  _

_ Sir William Thornton, Lieutenant-General KBC, Royal Marines, on behalf of _

_ General William Carr Beresford, 1st Viscount Beresford, 1st Marquis of Campo Maior, GCB, GCH, PC, Royal Army _

“Good lord,” James sighed, pushing the letter aside, “his spelling’s worse than yours.” In rebuke, Francis tapped his shoulder with the back of one hand, although the blow had no weight behind it, and was barely more than a mere brush of his fingers against the fabric grain. “And mine, obviously.”

“Sadly, I do not believe spelling is the true issue here.”

“No, you’re right about that.” James was still stuck on the sheer number of awards and letters following both names. “Campo meior. Good Christ. Beresford’s a field marshal.”

“Portuguese?” asked Francis. Although his tone remained casual, his fingers still brushed James’s shoulder.

“Mm.”

“Perhaps he served in Lisbon.”

“Yes. Perhaps so.” James tried not to seem so ill at ease, but obviously did not succeed, as Francis came to stand behind him, placing his other hand on James’s right shoulder without a word.

“If not, I suppose he knew my father.” James picked at the cuticle of one thumb until it tore and bled, and even then he did not stop. The edges of the cuticle now jutted up jagged against his fingers; all he wanted was to pick at them till the awful roughness suddenly fell away from his hands like magic. “How capital.”

“They’ll not ask about him.” Wordlessly, Francis stilled James’s hand, shifting to one side of the chair as he adjusted his hold. One palm now covered both of James’s. “Likely won’t even think it.”

“Still.” 

The very idea stung beyond all measure. Which prospect was worse: if this Beresford had never been to Brazil, and therefore could not tell Sir James Gambier apart from any other badly-behaved peer? Or if the man took a single look at James and somehow knew the truth beyond all doubt, ripping away all James had sought to build in less time than it took to eat a cucumber sandwich?

_ Christ, let it be Lisbon. _ James wished for it so fervently.  _ Please. _

He was surprised to realize he had said this aloud, and was squeezing Francis’s fingers tightly enough to hurt. But Francis did not react, merely let James cling to his palm until his knuckles whitened from the pressure, and the insistent buzzing in his head abated to a soft background hum.

##

Lieutenant-General Thornton and Lord Beresford were two of the oddest-looking old codgers Francis had ever met, even when you considered that Her Majesty’s Royal Navy was full of faces only a mother could love. Each presented a study in contrasts: where Beresford was soft and vaguely rounded with a well-lined face, and still slight for his age, Thornton was all sharp cords and angles. He had no more than a few crow’s feet lining his eyes and mouth, as if his mother had taken a corvid for a husband instead of a man. Beresford’s hair was white and wild, uncombed in a way that suggested he had spent half the morning in bed or rushing through the paths behind the house. Thornton had not a single strand out of place, and the dark streaks by his ears only signaled how fearsome he must have looked ten or twenty years prior. Beresford’s civilian clothes were mussed, as if he’d decided to give up military precision long ago. Thornton wore his own civilian clothes with iron resolve.

But Francis could say none of that, nor could he indulge in such petty imaginings with James sitting next to him, silent and near-paralyzed with dread. And so he cleared his throat, and drew on the few social skills he had. “So, ah. Do you or Lord Beresford have relatives nearby, Lieutenant-General?”

Thornton’s flinty eyes flicked to his. “No. Lord Beresford’s stepson is near Kent, whilst my nephew and his wife reside in Londonderry.”

“Oh,” said Francis, intending to make vague inquiries into the weather around Kent. Then the village name caught up to him. While Thornton’s cultured accent betrayed no obvious hint into his ancestry, few places in the empire boasted such a name. “Near Yorkshire?”

“No, it is  _ County _ Londonderry. Part of the Plantation of Ulster.”

“Oh,” said Francis again, casting a look at James to see if he might speak up and rescue him from having to discuss this. James’s eyes were resolutely fixed on the window behind them. “Well. Then you may know I am an Ulster fellow, myself.”

“Naturally,” Thornton said, just as Beresford piped up: “Named for the First Marquess of Hastings, Francis Rawdon-Hastings, though he was likely the Second Earl of Moira at the time.”

Even James looked boggled at this declaration. Thornton merely sighed.

“It is all there in Debrett’s, you know,” added Lord Beresford, voice thin and reedy, yet with the air of a supremely confident ship’s boy. “He did not achieve the earldom until 1793, and the marquessate in 1826.”

Francis inclined his head. “Yes. I believe that’s correct.”

“He was also rumoured to replace Pitt as Prime Minister in 1797, but—”

Thornton’s mouth pursed as he interrupted. “As you can see, Captain Crozier, Lord Beresford studies Debrett’s more thoroughly than any schoolboy.”

“Pray, what is your age, Sir Francis?”

“Lord Beresford.” Thornton did not merely purse his mouth to convey disapproval this time, but glared outright at his friend. “One does not simply ask a guest his age upon first meeting.”

“Oh, tosh,” complained Beresford, crossing both arms across his chest and slouching backwards into the sofa. “Many men find themselves duty-bound to ask  _ my  _ age when first we meet, so why may I not inquire as to the same?”

“Because it is  _ not done _ .”

“Well, whyever not? He isn’t a King, you know. And of the group of us, I am far older, so there is no risk of offense.”

Francis was swiftly losing faith in his social skills, as well as in the manners of anyone connected with the peerage, but he soldiered on. ”Lord Beresford, I have heard tell that yours is an impressive military career. Where have you served?”

Next to him, James went very stiff, and sat even taller in his seat. Francis did not let himself reach out, although he itched to soothe away James’s anxieties.

Lord Beresford’s face shone with glee at the question. “Oh ho! You see, Lieutenant-General, I told you they would not mind talking about such things. They are military men, after all. Thank you for your inquiry, Sir Francis. I have served in a great many conflicts spanning so many different countries. Let me see: numerous regions across the liberation of France, naturally, as well as Egypt, South Africa, the River Plate, which is in South America, Spain, Portugal, the Baliwick of Jersey, Ceylon, Corfu, Gibraltar, Bengal, Egypt, Montevideo….oh, dear. I’ve forgotten one, haven’t I, Thornton?”

“Madeira,” commented Thornton.

“Quite right! Quite right.” Lord Beresford beamed at Francis in a rather manic fashion. “The territory is separate from Portugal proper, you know.”

“Of course. And you, er, spent most of your time as a field marshal in Portugal, yes? I only ask as I was in Brazil in 1814, so I wondered if we had not glimpsed each other at some function or another.”

“No, no, no, my dear fellow. I have spent very little time in Brazil at all. The exiled court operated out of Lisbon for many years. Thus I did not journey to Rio till perhaps ‘16 or ‘17, and stayed no more than a year. Perhaps not even a year. Is that not so, Thornton?”

“It is my understanding that John the sixth himself sent you thence, yes.”

Next to Francis, James let out a slight breath.

“Capital!” Beresford clapped his hands, exhibiting all the unfettered glee of a child for several moments more before he lowered his hands to his lap, glanced around, and caught the eye of the footman standing nearest the door. When he spoke again, it was in a more reserved manner. “Oh, I say, Frost, do fetch our guests some water. I believe Captain Fitzjames is in need of refreshment.”

The footman departed at once. Meanwhile, James summoned up a small smile, but it did nothing to ease his pale complexion nor his strict posture. “Thank you, Lord Beresford, but it is no trouble. I am very well.”

“Nonsense, sir. You look a bit peaky. And truth be told, I am simply gasping, myself. We shall all have a glass for our continued health, and then perhaps we may take our tea.” A pause. He glanced at Francis again. “Sir Francis, I suppose you also know that the Marquess of Hastings was buried without his right hand, upon his clear directive?”

“....I did not,” Francis said.

“Oh, yes. The hand was preserved beyond, that it could be buried with the Marchioness of Hastings upon her own passing and she could clutch it freely into eternity. The Lieutenant-General likely believes me ghastly for speaking of such matters, but I find it a rather touching gesture of affection betwixt husband and wife. My own wife passed nearly two decades ago, you understand.”

Thornton’s lip had curled in horror at such forthright topics, but he seemed to have given up on the idea that he could redirect Beresford away from impolite conversation. As his water arrived, he seized on it with the look of a man who was facing down a firing squad instead of an afternoon tea. Perhaps he was also reticent to socialize, as well, and Beresford was the truly chatty party among them. Francis felt a sudden sympathy for the man.

“I am sorry to hear it,” he offered, hoping he had contorted his face into a suitable expression of condolence.

“Oh, you are most kind, Sir Francis. Pray, do not assume undue guilt; you knew nothing of it. I am merely speaking in generalities, you understand. Praising those men fortunate enough to attain the state of marriage.”

“Perhaps one should praise e’en the unmarried men, if they are fortunate enough to gain affection from their brothers-in-arms.” James spoke up now, in the same innocent-stroke-sly manner he had once used to taunt Francis needlessly across the wardroom table. “I find that most honorable, also.”

“Indeed it is, sir! An equally important state, sir!” Beresford laughed merrily, now toying with the fringe on one of the small pillows. “ _ Kiss me, Hardy. _ Fortune, indeed, to have the love of one’s compatriots.”

Francis flinched, and found he still could not smile at the reference.

“Ah,” interrupted Lieutenant-General Thornton, as if the firing squad he had anticipated all along had finally arrived, “Lord Beresford, Frost is indicating that the tea is ready.”

“Kiss me, Hardy!” chirped Lord Beresford again, as the tray was put down in front of them, but this time the outburst was ignored in favor of the tea sandwiches. 

  
  


_ “Come on, James. A bit of water, now.” _

_ Lying in his cot within the confines of a listing canvas tent, wheezing audibly with every breath, James was so weak he could barely part his lips to admit the small dropper. But at least he could still drink. Francis had resorted to giving him water this way, in infinitesimal swallows throughout the day, because it was now too painful for James to lift his head and be assisted using a glass or spoon. Each morning, the light in his eyes dimmed further, and Francis would be damned if he did not try everything in his power to keep him alive. There had been no signs of Fairholme’s party on the march to Comfort Cove, not even so much as an abandoned tin or an errant spoon. Thus, they must have reached Fort Resolute. They  _ must _ be on the way with assistance. Francis had to believe it was so, else he might go mad. _

_ “Here, James.” He dipped the dropper into the bottle once more. “Just one more draught. For me.” _

_ If James could not eat, that was one thing, considering there was naught to nourish them but sweets and poison. Haler men had lived for weeks on end without food, or with some poor approximation of it. Sir John had chewed lichens and boot leather. Tom Blanky and the others chewed laces to ease their hunger on the march to Fury Beach. If James did not have good food now, today, there was time yet. There would be time. But if he did not get enough water... _

_ “Francis.” _

_ Stunned, Francis fumbled the dropper as he glanced up. James had not spoken so much as a word in four days, not since he had collapsed in harness with blood pooling around his ribs and his wounds bleeding like they must have done the day he was shot by that musket. It had taken Goodsir hours to pack them tightly enough to mitigate the damage, and since then all they had done was tend to him. _

_ “Shhh. You must save your strength, James,” Francis whispered, even as tears stung at his eyes and his chest tightened to hear his friend speak. “Unless you desire to tell me about Shangkiang again?” _

_ Although James’s good eye was unfocused and ringed with blood, Francis swore he could still see it roll upwards at this comment. James made a soft, pained noise before speaking again. “Y’remember h… how Edward… said I w’s like Nelson?” _

_ Francis’s heart beat frantically against his throat. “Yes.” _

_ Infuriated me to no end, he did not say. I thought you were a prissy little arsehole, he did not say. _

_ Weakly, James turned his head to one side, regarding Francis through half-lidded eyes as he waved four fingers through the air. Francis did not know what the man was trying to accomplish till he wet cracked lips with the tip of his tongue, and spoke again: “Kiss me, Hardy.” _

_ The noise that threatened to force itself from Francis’s throat was not a laugh; he choked it back with all the discipline he could muster. “What?” _

_ “Francis.” Another wheeze; James dropped the humor from his earlier jest. “Don’ let me…. die unloved.” _

_ “You’ll not,” were the first words out of Francis’s mouth. “You could not.” _

_ “‘Francis,” repeated James, softer than before. “Kiss me before I…” _

_ The dam of dread contained in Francis’s chest burst forth all at once; stricken, he clutched James’s dirt-streaked, dried-blood-spotted hand in both of his as a messy sob wracked his body. Unable to speak, he pressed his forehead into James’s curled fingers. Hot tears streaked through the layer of grime dulling his pale skin. _

_ “Please, James.” He wanted to fling back the filthy bedcovers and curl up next to James in a single bag, the way they had done every night since Victory Point. “Please, I—”  _

_Raising his head, Francis did not even bother to swipe at his eyes, just let the tears fall as they would so that he could look James full in the face. He did not know what to say to such a declaration, even as a torrent of words bubbled up within his throat like water from a spring:_ _I would give you a hundred kisses if they might make you well. I would kiss you every day so long as we lived if it meant I did not have to lose you. Do not bid me do this now. Not tonight._

_ “You are  _ not  _ unloved. Hm? Do you hear me, James?” _

_ James blinked back at him. _

_ “And you aren’t bloody  _ Nelson _ , because Nelson was—well, he got bloody seasick at the first sign of high tide and—and bungled up Tenerife, and—expired getting shot in the spine. Which you’ve already survived.” _

_ Still James said nothing. _

_ “You are James Fitzjames, the man who will live and be loved for many years yet.” Lifting James’s limp, clammy hand to his mouth, Francis kissed his fingers, first pressing his lips to the seam where each digit met the back of a curved palm, then brushing his mouth against each knuckle, one by one. “You must. You’ve promised me.” _

_ Far from being comforted, James’s breathing was growing shallower, and his eyes were panicked. “Francis…” _

Suddenly, Francis snapped awake, drenched in sweat, while a sour taste dripped down the back of his throat. Lunging out of bed for the basin, he made it just in time, heaving up the contents of a meager dinner as he shuddered through the spasms.

After what could have been a minute or perhaps an hour, Francis slung a towel over the basin and turned on his heel, only to be confronted with James, who was awake, sitting up near the middle of the pillows and watching him with soft eyes.

“Bad dream?”

No, Francis meant to insist, all was well. He was quite well, except he could not force the words from his lips, and all the dread from Comfort Cove sat heavy in his gut. 

Wordlessly, he walked back to the bed, sat down, and listed sideways till he could bury his face in both hands, which were themselves propped against James’s outstretched legs. Here, lying prone next to his Second, practically draped across his lap, Francis wept quietly but with great feeling until the miasma of sickness had finally passed, and he could no longer see James’s broken body behind his closed eyes. 

When he came back to himself, he realized James was stroking his hair, but could not bring himself to comment on it. He fell asleep a second time with the scent of laundry soap in his nose and the gentle hum of James’s voice in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was at this point of the story that I realized I would have to invent some local friends for these two beautiful idiots, unless I wanted this to be an epistolary fic. So I dug into The Internet, found a couple of military dudes who were not only accomplished and interesting but could have legitimately been long time friends, and threw all those Facts into a blender. Voila: my own versions of [Thornton](https://www.alamy.com/frankenstein-created-woman-1967-peter-cushing-date-1967-image211755546.html) and [Beresford](http://santabarbara-online.com/Shorter2.jpg).
> 
> Handwaving the timeline of the expedition rescue here. Linear accuracy doesn't stop me because I can't read.


	4. Chapter 4

“Can’t we just stop the mail altogether?” Francis grumbled, as James finished reading from the latest invitation. Sir Matthew Marcus, formerly of the mayoralty, and his lady wife were inviting them to a ball at their nearby home, Marcus Manor.

“Do you not recall what you said when last we were invited anywhere, and I was not of the mood to join in?”

“You  _ know _ that invitation did not refer to a damned dance _ , _ nor the prospect of an entire evening away from home, socializing with scores of meddling mothers and all manner of slack-jawed idiots who just want to get a look at us.”

“Invitation does not refer to the quantity of meddling mothers attending this event, curiously enough.” James made a show of turning it over in his hands, and peering closely at the handwriting; Francis smiled before he could help himself, and bit his lip to hide it when James glanced up again, and caught him out. “Come now, Francis. If we are to spend more than a few weeks here, then we ought to make the rounds now, get it all behind us. Otherwise you may be in for more than a local ball.”

Francis crossed his arms over his chest. “Do not wish such ills upon me.”

Still smiling, James smoothed a hand over the back of the invitation, which remained face-up on the kitchen table. “I would never.”

##

“Ah, Lady Marcus! So wonderful to make your acquaintance at long last. Captain Crozier and I have already heard tell of your delightful new additions to the drawing room.”

Francis had no godforsaken idea what James meant by  _ additions _ , but perhaps it was merely a social courtesy to comment on such rumours, as Lady Marcus beamed at him from her place on her husband’s arm. “Oh, Sir James, you are kindness itself. I am certain our little soiree can in no way compare to any fine event you must have attended on the London scene.”

“On the contrary, madam, I find both your home and your event quite charming. Will you not introduce me to some of your other friends?”

It was a study in private amusements to watch James socialize so prettily with a group of strangers. Francis knew now that James could command a ballroom the same way he could captain a ship, when necessary: in a winning and confident manner, with no hint of any personal turmoil lurking below the surface. Although he also knew James tired easily at these sorts of parties, and likely would not dance, it was pleasing to see him so cheerful, and to watch others respond to his good mood the way flowers turned their heads to the sun. Across the ballroom, eyes kept darting toward them, and many of the meddling mothers were whispering to each other behind their fans.

“And what of Sir Francis, sir? Does your Captain Crozier not wish to take a turn around the room with one of my particular friends?”

Startling, Francis turned back to the conversation, and forced a pleasing look. James’s smile turned from pleasant to truly genuine as he regarded Francis, eyes crinkling up at the corners in a way that signalled his private cheer. “Lady Marcus, you are kindness itself to invite it, but I shall not speak for the gentleman on this matter, as Her Majesty’s Royal Navy does not look fondly on such insolence in a sworn Second. Sir Francis? Shall you dance to-night?”

“No. Er. Bad leg,” was all Francis stuttered out.

“Oh,” said Lady Marcus, and frowned. “A pity.”

“Fear not, Lady Marcus,” said James, as if Francis’s limp was an item of conversation which came up at all times, “‘tis a common ailment for many a former sailor, e’en on the merriest of occasions. Worry not: I shall make all the proper introductions in my friend’s stead, and will relay to him only the best of all stories concerned throughout the evening.”

“And shall you be relaying any of your heroic adventures to our little party, Sir James?”

Francis had to restrain a snort of derision as James demurred the question, all innocence. “Well, I do have some rather fetching tales about my service in China, if that is what you mean. And I suppose I could be encouraged to tell the full story in the right setting.”

“Oh! Well, by my reckoning, you have not yet been introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Andrews – that is the tailor and his wife—more ardent admirers of the Orient you have never met in all your life. I am certain they should be a perfect audience for—”

And away James was spirited, leaving Francis to stand next to Sir Matthew amid a protracted lull in conversation. The mayor cleared his throat. Francis shifted on his feet. A few gold threads in his jacket caught the light as he searched for something to say.

Apparently Sir Matthew had searched a bit harder, for he turned to Francis with brimming enthusiasm. “Have you heard about the recent match from Wednesday last, Sir Francis?”

“What?” Francis asked.

“Twas in the gazette only yesterday.” Sir Matthew looked wistful. “Caffyn is quite the roundarm bowler—daresay even a genuine all-rounder. Surrey will clinch the county championship by my reckoning.”

Francis made an affirming noise, though he was still lost. After listening to Sir Matthew talk about cricket for an interminable few minutes, and being introduced to several other gentlemen, he excused himself to the nearest quiet corner for a chance at reprieve. Once his back was to a bookshelf, he felt better, and was able to look around. James had already made his way through the principal people in the room, judging by the way many groups were now smiling and gesturing toward him, and was now on the dance floor for a quadrille, leading a white-haired woman who appeared to be aged three score and ten. Although she moved a bit more stiffly on the left, she was still rather graceful, and appeared to enjoy the attention of a man so many years her junior. Francis had to laugh at the gleeful, impish look on James’s face as he and his partner conversed. Served the meddling mothers right that James should dance with  _ their  _ mothers instead of the eligible daughters. If he kept this up, it also meant James would get to dance as many times as he wished, while the local boys could step in with the young ladies. And Francis could remain here to watch them all throughout.

“Sir Francis,” came a greeting from a little farther down; Francis looked over and saw Thornton sitting in a wingback chair that had been pushed into another eave.

“Lieutenant-General.”

Thornton inclined his head, but he did not rise from his seat, and so Francis kept his own, only looking away once a familiar breathless laugh sounded, and James suddenly appeared in front of him, swiping damp hair away from his face as he neatened his uniform. “I say, it is hellish hot tonight.”

“Perhaps among the dancers,” Francis replied. “I would not know.”

James grinned. “Mrs. Lowdon is a very graceful partner, at any rate.”

“Mm. She seemed pleased. As did you.”

A few giggling girls, likely no older than sixteen, now moved past Francis’s line of sight as the next dance began. As they continued walking, Francis saw a single white glove float to the floor next to Fitzjames’ left heel.

“Oh.” Francis pulled it up from the parquet and waved his free hand to gain the group’s attention. “Ladies? One of you seems to have left this behind.”

Strangely, the girls did not react well to this gesture of goodwill; they stood in a half circle, staring back at Francis as dismayed as if he had just offered them a piece of seal meat. 

After another moment, a waifish blonde girl with an elaborate updo darted forward to retrieve the glove, casting an apologetic look toward James as she did so. James gave her a polite nod. Now flushed as red as a Royal Marine’s uniform, the girl snatched the glove from Francis’s hand with a muttered thank you, and promptly fled back to her friends. The group broke out in giggles all over again once she rejoined them.

“At any rate, I believe I shall ask Mr. Arnold’s wife to dance next, as I am told her husband suffers from the gout,” said James as the girls disappeared, briefly clapping a hand to Francis’s shoulder. “Shall I bring you anything before the next round?”

“No,” said Francis. “Go on.”

Thus, James departed nearly as fast as he had appeared.

“Sir Francis,” came Thornton’s voice again. He was gesturing to the free chair nearest his table. “Join me, if you wish.”

Francis did wish it, actually. He was likely safer mingling on the sidelines with a new acquaintance than sitting alone where any person could approach. He went to his new seat, uncertain why he should have merited an invitation, but they spoke no more about it for several minutes, watching the dancers instead. The room was now waltzing, and each pair leaped on every fourth count till the dance floor became a swirl of colorful skirts and dark coattails. 

James was leading Lady Marcus, who seemed an amiable and lively partner; the two of them were slightly taller than the rest of their peers, so Francis could see each expression on the man’s face as if he were dancing directly next to them. Under the golden candlelight, James’s dark hair gleamed the way it must have when first they met, though the greater sea change in him could be observed in an instant, even by a stranger. Tonight, James’s smiles were genuine, and he laughed easily, and there was none of the usual brittleness about him. Francis could not remember the last time he had seen James in such high spirits, and tucked this treasured image away in his mind, determined to recall it exactly in future days.

“Sir James appears to be in his element,” came Thornton’s voice, breaking Francis from his reverie.

“Yes. He has always been social.” Francis did not know how to elaborate on such a precarious topic, particularly without James present to defend his own reputation, and so he did not. “Is Lord Beresford here, also?”

“Yes,” answered Thornton.

“Hm.”

They lapsed into silence again, broken only by the soft clatter of persons clearing the dance floor, as the resident musicians wandered off in search of food and drink.

“Hello, Francis.” Huffing from the exertion, James returned bearing two cups of pink punch, one which he gulped down in full, and the other which he handed to Francis. It was brimming with a sour-sweet berry fragrance. “I come bearing cranberry punch, free of spirits but not in flavours.”

“Thank you.” Francis accepted the cup, and took a tentative sip, tasting berries and sugar and perhaps mint. It was rather good. “James, you remember the Lieutenant-General.”

“Ah, yes,” answered James, placing his empty cup to one side so they could shake hands. “Good to see you again, sir. Are you enjoying the evening?”

“Relatively speaking.” Thornton’s arch expression did not change. “Much as one can.”

“Mm.” James’s mouth quirked up as he turned back to Francis, clearly biting back some comment about how Francis was in good company. “Well, I daresay—oh, dear.”

Beresford had now picked his way through the loitering crowd, and arrived at Thornton’s side only after tripping over someone’s skirt; he had to put a hand to the bookshelf to keep from crashing into the table entire. “Thornton, you shall never guess what Sir Marcus’s grandsons are up to in the back garden—never, never! Oh, those funny little boys. I have heard it from the hostess herself that in a few minutes, they are going to put on a—oh, hello, Sir James.” His voice dropped into a calmer, quieter octave, and he straightened to a more respectable posture. “And you, Sir Francis. What a fine surprise to find you all co-mingling.”

“Is not Sir Marcus’s youngest grandson five-and-ten?” asked Thornton pointedly. “And the other one-and-twenty?”

“No, he could not be five and ten!” Beresford peered at James, as if gauging the grandson’s age by virtue of how old James looked now. “Well, possibly could not. In truth, I do not know their ages. Thought them much smaller.”

“Perhaps the boys are merely minute, if not so young,” Francis offered, in an attempt to be polite.

Thornton took a drink from his own glass; the rim of the cup obscuring his mouth as he spoke. “The eldest is a head taller than Sir James.”

“Oh.” Embarrassed at theorizing, Francis decided it would be better to keep his mouth shut from now on.

Beresford giggled, pressing both hands to his mouth as if it took all his strength entire to keep his amusement to himself.

Without preamble, Thornton placed his crystal glass back onto the table, and steepled bony hands together. “Sir Francis, Sir James. I should like to extend you a second invitation to tea, if that is amenable. Perhaps Thursday next, two o’clock. Are you free?”

Surprised, Francis looked to James, who answered, “We are, yes.”

“Good. I daresay Lord Beresford will not object to—” Thornton trailed off, now frowning at Beresford’s jacket. “See here, sir. There is a streak of ash on your coat.”

Beresford glanced down at his jacket sleeve, swiping at the buttons. “Is there?”

Thornton’s frown deepened. “What business had you in the back garden, again?”

“Gentlemen! Ladies!” Sir Matthew and Lady Marcus now stood alone on the dance floor, champagne glasses lifted as if beginning a toast. “If you shall all follow us outdoors, we have a bright little surprise for you this evening.”

“Fireworks! It is fireworks!” Beresford exclaimed, but lowered his voice to a murmur once a few strangers nearest their table turned to glare at him for the interruption. “My apologies. I meant to say I have a bit of a frog in my throat.”

##

Francis seemed nervous to return to Thornford, if his inability to choose a waistcoat this morning were any indication of his mood. He spent nearly a quarter of an hour dithering in front of what James would have said was a very fine sage-green selection before placing this bright article back into the drawer, uncreased, and donning his usual dark blue. It was fitting, therefore, that he also looked so well in that color, if a little on the nose regarding his propensity to habit.

In an attempt to show Francis that he need not be afraid to wear colors other than regulation blue and beige, James donned a beautiful crimson brocade under a brown coat for the occasion, and actually smiled at his own reflection in surprise once he got it buttoned. How strange that an object as small as a fine waistcoat might bring such impish delight. How right he felt in such an unusually-bold shade.

Even Beresford remarked on this choice once they had arrived, seizing on James’s jacket sleeve with a hushed, “Oh, I say, what an intrepid choice for tea!” until James revealed the name and address of his London tailor.

Thankfully, it seemed Thornton had not invited them to tea in order to force Francis to socialize, but instead to acquire an opponent for his favorite pastime: playing chess. Francis was rather good at chess, if James remembered correctly, but according to other more knowledgeable sources, Thornton was more than  _ rather good,  _ and had run out of willing opponents after the first couple of years of living in the village.

“Yes,” Beresford was saying now, from his position on the chaise sofa, “Thornton and I engaged in many a chess match during our tenure in Jersey. Although I daresay he did not care for my style of gamesmanship; I often grew bored of weeks-long matches and was prone to acting rather hastily.”

“A full misrepresentation of the basic facts, sir,” corrected Thornton from across the room, as he swiped yet another of Francis’s bishops from the board. Francis scowled in dismay and settled back in his chair to study the board before his next move. “You conspired to end each match through all manner of skullduggery, including wild histrionics and instances of foul play as well as outright falsehoods.”

“I was not aware that inadvertently overturning one’s board represented a falsehood, sir,” Beresford replied loftily.

“You are well aware that the eastern wind was not so strong as to unmoor it.”

“Wind. Tosh! As I have told you, sir, the table sat uneven.”

As the two friends bickered in a good-natured manner, James watched Francis stare at the chess board, shamelessly taking this opportunity to observe him in action. Assuming a look of concentration that suggested he had been considering and re-considering this move for several minutes, Francis picked up his knight, and moved it a few squares to the left. James could not glimpse the board from this distance, nor the knight’s final position, but he saw a flash of satisfaction ripple through Thornton’s face before he could conceal it. As briskly as if he had anticipated this move all along, Thornton reached out and took Francis’s knight from the table, saying only. “Check.”

“Damn it,” huffed Francis, and chewed the inside of his cheek.

James restrained a laugh as he caught Beresford’s knowing eye. “You may have another overturned chessboard on your hands very soon.”

“Nonsense. Sir Francis is doing quite well, all things considered,” said Beresford, who cast an approving glance over the players, even as Francis hovered over a particular piece, now making a grumbling noise that suggested he was being asked to crawl over hot coals instead of making his next move. Finally, very gingerly, Francis released the top of the piece he had been pinching between his fingers.

“Checkmate,” came the pronouncement from the board. Thornton was not fully smiling, but tilted his head in an imperious way as he regarded his victory. Francis, meanwhile, was left to stare at the remaining pieces in disbelief before muttering something about  _ that damned corner bishop _ .

“Right,” Francis said loudly, stretching in his seat before beginning to rearrange the pieces. “Another round, then. Come on.”

“They will likely play for another hour yet,” confided Beresford, as he and James watched their friends set up the board for a second game.

James’s face must have said more than he dared to voice aloud, as Beresford gave him a madcap grin, and motioned him up from the sofa with a whispered, “Follow me. Quickly, now!”

The back of James’s neck pricked up. This sounded like adventure. Wordlessly, he followed, creeping out of the little parlor and through the black-and-white tiled hallway behind Beresford. They dashed behind a heavy curtain in the front hall when one of the maids passed with a stack of folded towels in her hands, but managed to avoid detection further while Beresford led them down the back staircase and into the kitchen, stuffing some secret treat from a jar of dried things into his pockets while the cook was off in another room. They exited the house through the servants’ entrance, walking down the gravel drive until they happened upon a modest-sized building of some sort: a shed, or perhaps an old cottage. 

Here, Beresford paused, and motioned for James to glance in the window of the small building. “Do you see it, sir?”

Peering closer, James noticed that the muslins in the window seemed to be moving rather vehemently considering all the doors and windows of the house were closed. Looking closer, he finally spotted what was causing the disturbance: a little black nose, poking at the bottom edge of the windowpane.

“My goodness,” he said, with a sly look at Beresford, who was beaming. “Rather excitable neighbours, sir.”

“Indubitably,” said Beresford, produced his keys, and opened the door.

When Beresford opened the door, a spill of tiny creatures burst out into the courtyard: six or seven shaggy puppies no bigger than a ship’s cat rushed for James at once, forcing him first into a low squat to greet them, and then into a wide, undignified sprawl on the bare ground as they all tried and failed to jump onto him at once.

“Look at you!” Laughing, James scooped the nearest fellow up to his chest so he was now scrabbling at his waistcoat. This pup was mostly black, with a splash of white that started at his chin and trailed down in ribbons from the middle of his chest all the way to his left paw. “Such distinguished chin whiskers. I daresay you’re the envy of all your litter mates.”

Wriggling in excitement, the pup whimpered and surged forward to lick James’s cheek. Two other puppies, brown and grey, piled across his legs while the others went off in search of Beresford.

“How old are they?” James asked Beresford, who was handing out the treat from his pockets. The puppies grabbed for it eagerly.

“Six weeks.” Beresford murmured to the puppy who he was currently hand-feeding. “Rather a larger group than most! Is that not right?”

The puppy yipped and nuzzled at Beresford’s age-spotted hand; Beresford broke off another piece of the dried meat in his hand and tossed it to him.

James was still caught up in petting the fellow who had first reached him, carding a hand over the pup’s soft head and ears till it had mostly stopped scrabbling at his sleeves, and merely tumbled around in an energetic, happy way. “They look like landseers.”

“Ah!” Beresford looked over. “Well spotted, Sir James! They are landseers on their mother’s side.  _ Her _ sire was a true Newfoundland, and she, the same. Whilst  _ their _ sire is full labrador.” He gestured to the puppy in James’s arms, then to the two sprawled on his feet. “There, you have three males; here—” he gestured to the group around him “—the eldest female, brindle, and the two greys, another female in addition to our youngest male.”

“So you’ve got a bit of a pedigree,” James said to the puppy in his arms, who was panting happily. Two of the others had flung themselves down by his feet and were busy gnawing at his laces. He paid them no mind. “Reminds me of another of your brethren.”

Beresford did not seem to be paying attention to James; James spoke the rest of his thought aloud.

“His name was Neptune.” James toyed with the puppy’s soft warm paw, noting its pale white color; how handsome it looked against dark paw pads. “Neptune was all black, with a handsome, shaggy coat. Impressive, and very good-tempered. I imagine, if you two had met, he should have made you an explorer of the best order, hm? Oh, yes. He and Francis would have taken you aboard  _ Terror  _ with pride.”

The puppy flopped sideways into James’s chest, showing off his belly and pawing the air. James took the hint and began to scratch at the space between his front legs.

“I am sure you should have loved dear Neptune as we did, hm?” He looked down at the puppy, who was regarding him seriously. Its pale blue eyes stared up at him. “Oh, yes. You’d have cried awfully to lose him.” James sighed now, allowing his touches to become lighter and lengthier as the puppy settled in the crook of his elbow. “Francis misses him so very much. Just like you shall miss your brethren when the time comes for you to leave home.” The puppy made a soft whimpering noise; James hushed it, stroking gently along the edge of one silky ear. “Yes, I know. You are going to be a big fellow soon. But you might perhaps tell me that you are already big, hm?”

“Hear, hear!” James looked over; Beresford had directed this comment to the bear-cub-like puppy nearest him, chocolate brown, who was happily rolling over his shoes. The others were occupied in chewing on the rest of their treats, and in some cases, their siblings’ ears. “What do you say, little sir? Shall you all reach another stone within a fortnight?”

The brown puppy at Beresford’s feet whined and pawed at the hem of his trouser legs.

“Quite right,” answered Beresford with a knowing chuckle. “A pup grown by next week. A thousand apologies.”

James was still petting the puppy in his arms, who had settled in happily and was drowsing in earnest, blue eyes half-lidded. In truth, it reminded him of the sweet way Francis looked after he was woken from a nap on the sofa, though James would never admit that aloud. “What say we pay our dear Francis a visit someday, hm? Would you enjoy that?”

“You know,” said Beresford, assuming a very innocent look, “I am certain Thornton and Sir Francis are nearing the end of their game. Or rather, that they should be nearing such an event. T’would be a great shame if they were somehow interrupted.”

“Oh.” James turned delighted eyes on the puppy in his arms. “How very interesting.”

“I still can’t reconcile how Greco’s manipulation of pawn structure remains relevant,” fumed Francis, as Thornton reassembled the last few pieces on the board. He had lost a third time, and was now feeling very idiotic. “Should we not as a society have turned to  _ Fifty Games between Labourdonnais and McDonnell  _ by now?”

“Lewis?” Thornton sniffed, shooting Francis a derisive look. “As opposed to Anderssen or Steinitz? Madness.”

“This from the man who rebuffed my opening gambit,” huffed Francis.

A clatter of small claws against wood made him stop to listen closely; the sound was so incongruent with their setting that for a moment, he imagined a mass of rats were about to burst out of the floorboards, as if they were all crawling up to the orlop from the hold.

A blur of clumsy four-legged creatures streaked into the room, rushing around the sofa and toward the open windows as well as the table holding the chessboard. It was not until two of them reached the table, tails wagging and muzzles moving, that Francis fully realized they were not rats at all, but puppies. Rats, after all, did not yip and bark and whimper at you while pushing their cold wet snouts into your ankles.

“Aah!” exclaimed Francis, as one particularly bold offender tried to sniff its way up his trouser leg. “Bold little devil!”

But he crouched down to pet the pup anyway.

Across from him, Thornton remained ramrod-straight in his seat, as if determined to teach the puppies that he would pay them no mind till they comported themselves appropriately. “If either of you so much as scratches my shinbone,” he said imperiously to his own feet, as two slate-grey puppies whined and pawed at his slippers in frustration, and fell over each other in an attempt to jump up onto his legs, “I shall be very cross.”

Bemused at the man’s stubbornness, Francis glanced to the door just as Beresford and James appeared: the clear culprits of this particular invasion. Beresford looked completely at ease, laughing even as the remaining dogs began to chase each other pell-mell about the carpet, while James’s attention was completely focused on a black puppy he was cradling in his arms, as tenderly as he might hold an infant who could not sit up on its own. He did not even seem to realise they had walked into the parlor at all. 

Nearby, Thornton and Beresford began conversing in an animated way. Beresford picked up one of the puppies and held it out to Thornton, its small legs wiggling pitifully, as if to demand the poor creature merited a pat on the head. “Oh, won’t you acknowledge these poor creatures, Thornton? Look here, Six has sat so nicely in anticipation of it.”

Francis glanced at the one remaining pup beneath the table, which had indeed sat at Thornton’s feet. Its tail was thumping madly against the floorboards and it was whimpering very loudly with badly-contained excitement, but it was seated, which had to count for something.

“Lord Beresford, you know my opinion on this subject,” repeated Thornton, in the long-suffering voice of a man who has made a particular argument far too many times to count, “I shall not brook such a flagrant intrusion into my leisure space.”

“Oh, hist, sir!” Beresford waved a hand, appearing not at all bothered that two puppies were attempting to gnaw off the legs of a nearby divan. “They each spent a penny before we brought them in. Your carpet is quite safe, I assure you.”

Thornton did not look at all reassured by this, but wordlessly tossed what appeared to be a hunk of dried meat to the puppy at his feet. 

Francis looked to James, ready to make a smart remark or perhaps share an amused glance, but James was now sitting directly on the floor, murmuring quietly to the black and white puppy still in his arms, which was nuzzling its snout into his cupped hand, and licking happily at said fingers whenever James ceased to pet him.

“No, no,” he was saying in a low, tender voice. “You cannot eat my pocketwatch, silly boy. That would make you very ill, indeed.”

Half of James’s hair now shielded part of his jaw as well as the puppy’s pink-and-white belly from view, but even this did not stop Francis from observing how soft-eyed James remained, and how well he wore such an expression. Strange to think how little Francis knew such tender displays of feeling, even after all their years serving together. Perhaps he had seen James smile so widely at Neptune whenever the party from  _ Erebus  _ boarded  _ Terror,  _ and had simply buried the memories under a swell of whiskey and undeserved resentment _.  _ Perhaps he had seen this look of infinite, quiet care directed at the men once James was finally well enough to move about their makeshift camp. He thought, or perhaps merely imagined, that he had also seen it directed at the shoreline, on the day they came into view of the Irish coast.

_ Beset by blurry dreams of bloodied wounds and antiseptic, Francis had woken one morning at dawn, with James nowhere to be seen within their shared cabin and a note on the opposite bunk that simply read ‘Quarterdeck.’  _

_ Quickly, he readied himself and rushed up to the quarterdeck. Apart from the watchmen and those beginning their regular duties, he found James already dressed for the day, wrapped in a fur that had been given to him at Fort Resolution and staring out at the horizon on the starboard railing, clear-eyed and careful. _

_ Walking forward, Francis cleared his throat to signify that James was no longer alone. When his Second turned, his face was aglow with the first rays of the dawn sun, and the bright gleam in his eye spoke to a contentment Francis had not glimpsed in years, if ever. The vigor and clarity in such a gaze stunned Francis into silence as he stepped up to the railing, and stood beside him, watching the rise and fall of the nearby waves. _

_ “I spoke with Master Blanky earlier,” said James first, light and cheerful, as if the hollowness in his cheeks and the intermittent wobble in his step was no more than a temporary trick of the dawning light. He checked his watch as he spoke, then snapped it closed. “Do you know our position to-day, Francis?” _

_ “Hebrides,” muttered Francis, with a vague wave port-side. He had been all but booted from the Great Cabin by Captain Richardson last night as he had attempted to check the log as to their true position, and was still smarting from the snub. In front of them, to the south toward Belfast, lay perhaps hundreds of ports, shoals, and soundings along the Scottish seas, the Irish Sea, St. George’s Channel, and Ballyquintin Point. “Islay. Jura. Why?” _

_ “Look,” said James, jutting his chin starboard, out to the ocean beyond. _

_ Francis cast another cursory glance over the water and toward the long shadow that was land, fully expecting to see nothing save shapeless masses amid the dawn fog. Through the sun rising steadily at their backs, his eyes began to adjust, and he could pick out the sharp creep of rocky cliffs, as well as the shimmer of a far off window from a low stone building. _

_ “Torr Head,” said James, voice soft. He gestured aft up the coast, where the great cliffs grew taller and more fearsome, towering over the shoals and tidal streams. “Ballycastle, three point eight miles west.” He gestured forward, leaning slightly over the rail as he did so. “And Cushundun, two point four miles south, south east.” _

_ Francis furrowed his brow, still not certain why James would be so keen on pointing out so many landmarks. _

_ “All told, I suppose it is eighty or ninety miles to Banbridge, as the crow flies,” said James, curving a small, private smile toward his hands before he met Francis’s puzzled gaze. “But I have kept my promise.” _

_ “To—” Francis startled at the name, and regarded the coastline with new eyes, as the names of the landmarks James had mentioned earlier flitted back through his conscious mind. “You cannot mean—?” _

_ “Home, Francis.” And James reached out, tangling his fingers in the sleeve of Francis’s jacket. “Ireland.” _

_ On any other day, Francis would have made a caustic reply in turn.  _ I’ve never even been to Ballycastle  _ or  _ Christ, James, we’ll not be within distance of Banbridge till we reach Belfast.  _ But staring at the sprawl of green fields beyond the sea cliffs, and the familiar sway of a shore that was his own, a hard knot bubbled up into his throat. The base of the waves misted for reasons other than the flow of the tide, and he could say no more. _

Still murmuring to the now-sleeping puppy, James adjusted his hold, tucked his hair behind one ear, and seemed to realize he was now sitting on the ground, glancing first to the door and then to the party by the chess table, biting at the inside of his lip. “My apologies. I did not intend to….how thoughtless of me.”

With a grunt, he leveraged himself to his feet, still balancing the puppy in his left arm all the while. Francis watched him closely, and was gratified by the fact that James’s bearing was steady, and that the movement had seemed not to pain him much at all.

“Nonsense, sir,” said Beresford. Francis realised he was staring, and averted his eyes, and stepped back toward his chair. “You have a skilled hand with them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, trying to get two characters to talk awkwardly about 19th-century regional cricket or grandmaster chess maneuvers: [.......did you see that ludicrous display last night?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6yN2H3--1aw)
> 
> [Glove flirtation language](https://www.geriwalton.com/gloves-and-flirting-language/) was absolutely A Thing in Victorian times, but whether Francis was let in on this is anyone's guess. My gut says no, because Sophia doesn't play that game and probably no one else flirted from a distance long enough for him to find out. Everyone else in that ballroom, on the other hand....
> 
> Meanwhile, [James's favorite puppy](https://animalso.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/01/newf-great-pyrenees-mix-809x1011.jpg) is also my favorite.


	5. Chapter 5

Sometimes on weekends when Francis rose early, unable to quiet the desperation in his body nor his mind, the bed was empty and there was movement in the kitchen. On those particular mornings, Francis moved more slowly, lingering at the basin despite his restlessness, dawdling over the choice of trousers or waistcoat or shirtsleeves in lieu of interrupting something far more private than a nightmare. Usually, when he heard a great slosh of water being poured out off the side porch and into the flowerbeds, he knew it was safe to emerge.

Today, when he heard the water pouring from the galvanized tub, he sighed in relief, and strode out of the bedroom into the kitchen, ready to catch a freshly-washed James in a clean nightshirt or perhaps a new change of clothes and bid him good morning.

It took him several steps to realise he had misheard the sound—although it had indeed been water pouring from a tub, the stream had been directed  _ into  _ the bathtub and not outward. Thus, slightly crouched in the middle of the bathtub on the porch, stood a bare, glistening James, scrubbing idly at the side of his neck with one hand as he put the empty cookpot aside.

Behind James, a soft, warm sun blazed low in the sky, and the gentle mist that settled around the low fields in the early hours had dissipated. Francis’s breath caught as he watched little rivulets of water ripple across lean muscles. Good Christ. James no longer looked ill in any capacity, though the telltale scars across his arms and back lingered and caught the light. Instead, he looked like some farmhand they put in young girls’ stories, home from a long day’s work. Rugged and strong.

James’s hand played across his bare chest, swiping away last remnants of soap or water or oil lingering at his breast, and Francis’s strained mind ached to see his hands remain thus before the unspoken thread connecting them pulled taut. Suddenly, James was glancing over one shoulder, meeting Francis’s embarrassed gaze with a quirk of his mouth. “Morning.”

“M—ah. Sorry. I was—I am—going into town.” He had no idea why he had said such a thing, only now the urge to flee James’s lax gaze was bearing down on him like a berg in pack ice. “D’you need anything?”

“No.” James was now squeezing water from the ends of his hair with a clean towel. The opposite end also covered him between the legs, although barely. A visible dusting of dark hair trailed down below his navel. “Don’t believe so.”

“Right. Good. I don’t n—it will not be very long. Not much to get.” Heat now seared him from face to flanks, and for a moment Francis was certain James could see how unsettled he had become. “Perhaps visit Arnold’s.”

James paused in his movements now; Francis watched in silent dismay as the towel he had been employing to dry his hair unspooled away from his middle and down the outside of a hard, muscled thigh. His olive skin still glistened with water. Sodding Christ, had the man no compunctions at all about being in such a state of undress, still facing the road? Would he soon toss the towel aside and parade about the kitchen as naked as the day he was born, blithely letting his hair dry on its own in the summer heat as he took a cup of tea? Francis found he had no answer to such questions, and worse, that he seemed unable to speak further. He was covered in confusion at finding James in such a manner at all. His logical mind could conjure no further reason for a visit to town, nor offer excuses for his present hysteria. All he could do was stand and gawk like some idiot ship’s boy upon seeing his older messmates at the basin.

“Well,” said James, who seemed unbothered by Francis’s apparent witlessness as he stepped out of the tub onto the nearest rug, and slung the unspooled towel loosely about his shockingly-narrow waist, “if you find yourself looking for frivolous purchases there, I could certainly use a mattock for the carpet-beddings. The Blands’ boy will likely help dig them, but in truth I am not certain when... ”

The tuck of the towel around James’s waist was so precarious that Francis nearly lifted his hand to secure the tail of the damned thing before catching himself. What the devil was he playing at? Trusting as James was, and comfortable as he might be in his own form, he would likely not appreciate being grabhandled in such a fashion. As it was, the instinct to reach for James’s bare stomach was so overwhelming that Francis had to ball one hand behind his back, lest his fingers move of their own accord, and he should find himself tracing the contours of the man’s well-defined abdomen or pressing his fingertips into the soft skin at his hip.

“Francis?”

“Sorry.” Francis was not sure if he was apologizing for his single-mindedness or for his inability to listen to the end of that particular story. “Yes. I’ll, ah. Flintlock, you said.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Mattock.”

“Yes, yes, fine. Consider it done.”

Agitated and very possibly deranged, Francis departed from the porch in haste. It was not until he had walked the twenty minutes from the house, down the long lane to the point where it finally met the main road, that he was able to recall where he was headed. Not five minutes later, he found himself entering Arnold’s. Normally, he might have been calmed by the blended scents of wood and metal and salt and peat, but today it only served to remind him of the galvanized metal tub, sitting freshly-filled on the front porch as James stood next to it, dressed only in his nightshirt, pouring in the last of the hot water. Sun rippling off the surface and a heady earthen scent in the air as James pulled the thin cotton over his head and—

“What can I do for you, Sir Francis?”

Startling, Francis glanced at the counter, noted that there was a fashionable young lady behind it instead of cranky old Arnold or his son, and blurted out the first thing that came to mind:

“I, ah. I—well—find myself in need of—that is, would you have any mattocks? Pick-axes?”

“Yes.” Her tone was blithe; casual.

“Ah. Good. And—and—” he was perspiring very heavily now. A drop of sweat slid down his temple and into his collar, “perhaps—a pair of the, ah. Shears? The, er.” He made a  _ cutting-with-scissors  _ motion using two fingers, and promptly wanted to fling himself from the nearest cliffs. “Those.”

“All right,” she answered, and went to get them down from where they hung behind the counter. Her bracelets tinkled as she walked.

Unable to stem this tide of idiocy, Francis glanced around the room in search of something familiar to ground him. Instead, his eyes landed on a small square of red and gold fabric, attached to the hinge of a pale-papered box near the storeroom door. “What is that?”

“Oh!” The young lady brightened instantly, placing the pair of shears onto the counter before rushing over to the package in question. It turned out to be a rather large box, whose pale rice paper was covered in postage stamps as well as what appeared to be Chinese writing. The pattern on the paper had a faded dragon on it. “Only came a few days ago, sir. It’s a proper dressing gown for a gentleman, far as I reckon. I can show you. Real silk!”

As she unboxed it and held it up for his inspection, Francis’s head swam with the surge of color and motion. The fabric square on the outside of the box was a mere hint as to how it truly looked. Edged in gold and silver thread, perhaps meant to mimic clouds or waves, the sumptuous red fabric featured an embroidered gold and green dragon in the center of the back panel. Smaller creatures trailed down the arms and shoulders. Tiny pearl-like beads dotted the silvery waves at the bottom. Francis reached out to touch the fabric. When buttery silk caught immediately on his rough fingers, he startled, and pulled his hand away. “Sorry.”

“Oh, no, you’ve not hurt it,” the girl soothed, though he’d just seen her glance at the fabric to make certain.

Staring at the box, another image came to his mind, unbidden: James standing next to the bathtub, sweeping the red collar over his bare shoulders after emerging from the hot water. James in the winter, with the stove heating their kitchen, lifting messy hair away from the back of his neck before he slid the robe from his shoulders and let it fall to the—

“So you’ll be wanting it, then, sir? The dressing gown?”

Abruptly, Francis realized he had gripped the box in both arms while still standing at the counter, as if to prevent some other person from socking him in the nose and rushing off with it. The young lady had been forced to step backwards as a result, and was now eyeing him as if he’d need to be immediately reprimanded for such carelessness. Or perhaps socked in the nose himself, for attempting to steal it.

“Yes,” he said, all too aware that the unsteady prickling sensation had rushed back into his knees and hands. There was an odd ringing in his ears. He released the box at once.

“Now, I reckon this’ll be perfect for summer and autumn, but if it’s a winter layer you’re truly wanting, Mrs. Andrews has a warmer one done up with fur over in the haberdashery. Think she rather imagined some nice newlywed would snap it up.”

Francis had no idea what to say to that. “And, ah, perhaps I might also get some—have you any sugar?”

“White or brown, sir? And how much?”

“Twenty—pounds,” Francis stammered, as all rational thought flew away. “And. Er. Brown?”

He was not certain he had eaten twenty pounds of brown sugar over the course of his entire life, but if the young lady had questions about his health or the specifics of the order, these remained unvoiced. She wrote up the ticket and had a young lad restocking shelves, who was perhaps ten or eleven, promise to deliver all but the pick-axe within the next couple of days.

Stunned and still feeling shaky, Francis did not return to his body until at least an half-hour hence when he found himself alone on the lane approaching the house, carrying the pickaxe upside down, the blade cradled in both arms with the bottom of the handle resting against his chest like a very delicate flower. He very carefully did not think about what he had just purchased, just as he did not dwell on the image that threatened to overtake his mind again now: James lying bowlegged on the parlor sofa, bare thighs emerging from puddles of embroidered silk—James untying the robe with deft fingers as he sat facing Francis at the breakfast table, his dark eyes daring him to observe all—James, James, James.

When he returned to the house, he put the pickaxe in the shed with James’s slowly-growing collection of gardening tools, and tucked the receipt into his pocket before going back inside. As he pushed open the door into the kitchen, James caught his eye and smiled. Francis’s hands twitched in an alarming way at the sight. 

“You’re just in time,” was all James said. “Kettle’s hot.”

##

“Check.”

Thornton looked inordinately pleased. Francis suppressed a groan as he realised he’d fallen prey to a knight fork on F7, and that his white king only had a knight and a bishop left to defend against Thornton’s black rook, queen, and king. It was the sort of move a clever schoolboy might have deployed against the class dunce. Enter he: said dunce.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Francis grumbled, knowing that any move he made next would only prolong Thornton’s victory. Perhaps he could run his king all over the board and evade capture for ten or twelve moves yet. “Bloody ship’s boys could have spotted that on the horizon, and I did not.”

Thornton affected a casual, uncaring air, though Francis could see the gleam of satisfaction in his eye. “Quite.”

In the corner of the room, there was a sudden rustling of pages: Francis glanced sideways to see if Beresford’s watercolor set had somehow been blown over and found, disappointingly to his jangled nerves, that the old man sat content at the table in the exact seat he had assumed perhaps a half hour prior, painting a steady span of blue along the middle of his page. And across from him, jacket unbuttoned, glorying in the breeze from the open window, sat James, who was using paper and pencil for quick sketches.

Francis swallowed as he watched James tuck an errand strand of hair behind one ear, then continue sketching as if nothing were amiss. Long and glossy, his thick locks had waved well after drying in the morning air, to the point that Francis was forced to concede that James’s exaggerated curls were perhaps not as unnatural as he had once assumed. Merely neatened by the curling tongs. Admittedly, he preferred this version of James’s hair to all others.

He longed to go over and ask James what he might be drawing. Sit next to him as he made some elaborate reply, gesturing wildly with his hands as he explained all to Francis in great detail. Yes, Francis could sit beside James, perhaps pretending to read, and study him as he worked. Color was high in James’ cheeks and his skin looked dewy in the afternoon sun; Francis wondered if his clothes were sticking to him, now. If he were comfortable or overheated. At worst, he could pour water over James’s head to ensure he was not overheated, but then his shirt and waistcoat would cling to him as dewdrops to a blade of grass, and then he would—

“Sir Francis?” Thornton cleared his throat, pointedly; Francis glanced back to the chess board. “It is your move.”

Francis hastily seized on his knight and swiped Thornton’s rook from the board, only to realize that he had not accounted for the position of the queen, and had left his c4 bishop unmoored and defenseless. It would be swiped in another turn, perhaps two if he was very fortunate. Not to mention, he had left his right flank entirely open.

“Damn it,” Francis cursed himself for being so distractible as Thornton moved his queen diagonally to h4, and sat back from the board, now steepling his hands across his stomach. 

“Check,” Thornton said coolly, although this was obvious. 

Sighing, Francis moved his king to e2 so it was out of danger for now. This time, he caught Thornton’s slight, sharp smile as he reached out and plucked the white bishop from the board.

##

Young Roger Bland, a burly lad of seventeen who was as cheerful as he was strong, was unable to venture out to the house until Friday. James would have protested that he did not need help with the garden at all, except his left shoulder had been aching rather awfully after four full days of hauling soil in the wheelbarrow and spreading gravel for the new flowerbeds. He’d had to take a headache powder that morning to dispel the corresponding throbbing in his jaw and neck. Francis had said nothing, but saw James attempting to massage out the stiffness around his collar, just after breakfast. He had looked so aghast at the notion that James might be in distress that he dropped his breakfast utensils en route to the sink.

Regardless, James did not expect Roger’s arrival to be timed to a delivery from Arnold’s, particularly when the delivery boy brought out what appeared to be at least fifteen pounds of sugar from his cart in addition to the pallet of flowers James had ordered a month prior. Lastly, and most puzzlingly, there was a large square box wrapped in brown paper.

“You’re  _ certain _ this is all for us,” he repeated for the third time in as many minutes. Standing nearby, Roger was hiding a giggle behind his hand. “Including  _ that _ ?”

“It’s him what ordered it, sir,” replied the boy, gesturing toward the house with the box. “Twenty pounds of brown sugar, that is.”

He was gesturing to Francis, who had rushed outside at a speed James had not seen him attain since Victory Point, waving one arm and indicating the boy should bring everything up to the porch as he hurried to a stop.

“Give that here. I’ll take the lot.” Francis paid the boy, shoved the receipt in his coat pocket, and swooped off with the box as if it weighed no more than air. 

“Francis, what did you do? And why on earth did you get so much?”

Still walking, Francis waved away the first question with an irritated noise, and pretended not to hear the second. It was not for another hour, when James and Roger had planted several seedlings and the sun blazed high above them, that the topic was brought up again.

“Do  _ you _ have any idea what that was about?” James asked Roger after they had finally wrestled a particularly thorny and obstreperous rosebush into place.

Roger dusted loose soil from his hands. “Don’t rightly know, Captain, sir. It your birthday or something?”

“No. Not till February.”

“Could be for Christmas.”

“True. But it’s only August.” James sat back against his heels before standing up. Blood rushed to his head; he had to pause a moment before reaching for the water dipper. He leaned on his braced shovel as he drank. “If the good Captain Crozier’s preparing for Christmas already, then I am perhaps shamefully behind.”

Roger was no longer staring out into the field, but had narrowed his focus down to James’s arm. “You cut yourself, sir?”

“What? Good Christ.” Glancing down, James saw a wide streak of blood marring his left shirtsleeve, and yanked up the collar of his shirt immediately, terrified that the bullet wound had opened up a third time without him knowing. When he discarded the shirt, and examined the arm, he found the injury in question was barely a scrape. A miniscule cut along his bicep from a thorn, or perhaps a sharp corner of the pallet. He exhaled, relieved. “Only a scratch. You had me worried.”

“That’s what you call a  _ scratch _ ?” 

James looked up; the lad was inordinately fixated on his left shoulder. Looked like Goodsir when presented with a particularly tempting mollusk specimen. Like he wanted to sit James down at once, pull a pair of horn-rimmed glasses onto his nose, and examine the scar tissue at his leisure.

“Well.” Some of the old pride pulsed through him, despite everything. “Wouldn’t characterize a musket ball piercing as  _ a scratch _ , no. Struck me in three places.”

Roger winced. “It never did!” And then, babbling all at once, suddenly boyish: “Oh, sir, how did it happen? Was it horribly painful? Did it bleed like the dickens?”

“In China, some years back. Yes, it was very painful. And yes, I should characterize it as having bled like the damn dickens. ….But do not tell your mother I used such words directly.”

“No, sir.” Roger was still gawking at James’s arm and back. “Looks awful mean. I’m sorry to speak of it.”

“Well. T’would not be so bad apart from the scurvy. Injuries opened a second time during our last expedition.” Oddly, James did not mind sharing this fact with the lad. Perhaps it was because Roger was no older than an ensign or mate might be. It was as if James were teaching him about the dangers of such wounds, and how to live with them after an expedition ended, rather than boasting about how the injuries came to be. “Which is why you must always get enough fresh meat and citrus.”

Roger gave a low whistle.

James shrugged in an unartful fashion, resorting to the most Francis-like answer he could muster. “I am very fortunate.”

Did it feel like fortune to be spared from such horrors? On the  _ Cornwallis _ , it had; at least after the surgery was done, and he knew he would live. It had seemed so in the early days on the  _ Erebus _ , when he would discuss such topics with Sir John. Far before he had counted Francis as a brother and a friend. Far before he had intimate knowledge of death. And now, standing here, looking back, knowing he and Francis had a life of their own in this house, as well as a place to call home… perhaps the circumstances seemed fortunate anew. Perhaps that was why he was happier these days. Sleeping better. Feeling contented. He had a good life, plus a cherished friend with whom to share it. 

“You all right, sir?”

James glanced over. Roger was holding out the dipper between them, and his expression was wary; concerned. 

James took the offered drink. “Only tired, but I thank you.” After giving it back, he decided it was hot enough to work without the shirt today. “Let’s start in on the rest.”

Later that afternoon, after they had dug twelve more rows, and Roger had been sent off with two slices of apple cake as thanks, James changed for supper and found Francis in the parlor, sealing up what appeared to be a letter to the Rosses.

“Any word on your newest godchild?” James asked first. If he understood Ross’s last letter correctly, Ann was in her confinement and was perhaps due any minute.

Francis shook his head. “No news yet.”

“Blast.” James was about to make some ill-timed quip about it when he happened to glance down at Francis’s feet, and saw a crumpled bundle of plain brown paper sticking out of the footwell. He pulled an innocent-eyed face instead. 

Francis followed his gaze, and grimaced.

James held up a hand for peace, signalling that he would not force the matter. “You don’t have to show me, if it would not suit your purposes. If it is meant for Christmas or a birthday or some far grander occasion, then I’ll not spoil it.”

“Tomorrow,” said Francis, after a short pause. “After breakfast.”

##

The next morning, exactly as promised, Francis got up from the table after breakfast and motioned James toward the bedroom. Inside, the now-unwrapped parcel sat in the middle of the bed.

James inspected the outer wrappings for a few moments before opening the lid, and prepared himself to make all the appropriate noises over a stolid, practical gift; the kind that could be dearly appreciated but was not surprising in any form. Oh, what a lovely book, Francis. Such excellent garden tools. You’ve put this fountain pen in a Chinese box; how funny. When he finally brushed delicate rice paper to one side, and noticed a significant yardage of silk inside the box, his brow drew down and his eyes widened. And then he fully regarded the item in question. Good Christ.

He kept staring at the elegant collar as if it could announce to him how such a thing had happened. This was no mere gift. This was—where could that rascal possibly have found—how had he  _ done _ this? When he attempted to ask, a soft, stunned squeak was the only noise to emerge from his throat.

Francis seemed alarmed. His cheeks reddened, his posture straightened, and he tucked both hands behind his back as if he were assuming parade rest. James knew that look. He was preparing for bad news.

James opened his mouth, but was denied words a second time; his only recourse was to purse his lips in a pleading way—shake his head no. His heart threatened to rabbit out of his chest, and tears stung at his eyes. Heedless of such physical betrayals, he drew the garment out of the box and draped it over his outstretched arms, caressing the back of the robe in both hands as he beheld it anew.

A  _ jifu,  _ if he remembered the word correctly. Not like the sinfully elaborate robes the Chinese officials had worn for the portraits, but equally illustrative of rank and status. Meant for courtiers. Riding and fighting. And yet it was not bland nor stifling nor strict in the way a uniform might usually be. It made James feel uncommon strong, to be called steward of a garment so fine and delicate. It made his stomach flutter with nerves to imagine slipping it on over his shirtsleeves. Or with nothing beneath it at all. Like being gifted the finest evening dress when he was expecting a set of hammers and nails. Exquisite. Incredible. Perfect.

“James?”

James glanced right. Francis was still standing at attention, though his fingers now twisted nervously behind his back. His usually-inscrutable face had cracked open into a curious look, soft and unbearably tender. Such quiet hesitance tore at James’s breast till a wellspring of deep feeling surged up inside him; heedless, he sprang from his chair and rushed forward till he had enveloped Francis in his arms, crushing the beautiful garment between them as he did so. No sooner did he clasp Francis to him bodily than he wanted to look him full in the face, and so he pulled back, drinking in the soft blush that had now stained Francis’s cheeks, and the gap-toothed grin which split his face so delightfully. He gripped Francis’s shoulders with his hands, then, feeling this touch wholly unequal to the joy that burst like congreves inside him, placed both palms against either side of Francis’s jaw, cupping his face as tenderly as a boy might capture a stationary butterfly. Shaking, still faltering for words, James chewed at the inside of his cheek. Wet his lips with his tongue. “‘Tis—beautiful.”

Even this was not enough. God Himself could have come down from the heavens to supply him with adjectives and James still should have found himself stupefied.

“Beautiful,” he repeated, and moved forward again, catching only the slacking of Francis’s jaw between his thumbs as he leaned down and kissed the man square on the forehead. 

Francis’s throat worked as James pressed his lips to tender skin, and his mouth trembled after James pulled back. With greatest reluctance, James dropped his hands, and stepped away, putting a slightly more respectable distance between them as he took up the robe in two hands once again. Christ. He was lightheaded. He had to clear his throat to speak in earnest. “Never adored anything more.”

Francis’s blush enveloped him from ears to collar by this point; he looked equal turns relieved and puzzled by such a bold reaction.

James put a hand to his own heated cheeks, suddenly self-conscious at his effusiveness. “Lord. I am making an idiot of myself to-day.”

“No,” rasped Francis. “Never.”

He did not elaborate. A strange silence lingered between them.

“At any rate.” James wanted to flee to London and call on everyone they knew to tell them of this gift. Or perhaps to compose himself. He knew not which. “Would you mind terribly if I took the box over to Thornford? I think Lord Beresford might appreciate chatting on topics apart from chess or the Baliwick.”

Francis frowned, and opened his mouth to speak, but it appeared he needed several seconds to find the appropriate words. “You’ll—you would not wear it around—“

“Heavens, no, Francis. Good Christ.” James should sooner wish to put on a costume of ancient frills and parade it round in front of the Admiralty than do something so rash. To wear a robe this lovely anywhere but their own home seemed absurd. “Only here.” A huff of nervous laughter wanted to burst from his throat; he bit it back. “For you.”

The soft blush returned to Francis’s face; James tried not to dwell on how well it looked. Francis merely nodded, and accepted additional thanks with a small smile before scurrying off, probably to avoid remaining the center of attention for much longer.

James set out to Thornford with merriment in his heart. He did remember that the servants enjoyed a half day on many Sunday mornings, so remained unperturbed when his knock at the front door was unanswered. Nipping over to the servants’ entrance, he found this door unlocked; Mrs. Beryl and her kitchen maid were ensconced in the servants’ hall, gossiping over their morning tea. James elected not to disturb them, and traversed to the parlor instead. Lord Beresford was usually overjoyed by surprises, and the Lieutenant-General would not scorn them if they were innocuous enough.

As James approached the parlor, a flash of movement by the window caught his eye; Lord Beresford had dashed to the window seat where Thornton sat absorbed with a book. The elder man had a sheet of loose paper clutched in one hand.

“Thornton, look!” Beresford’s voice was pure delight. “The redbirds are so very sweet today, are they not? I am putting it in the letter to Alexander and Millie.”

“Mm.” Thornton turned a page in his book, but did not look over as directed. “Good.”

Beresford pulled a small pout. “You old devil. You did not even look.”

“Must I?” came the response.

Far from being cowed, Beresford tossed his page aside and shoved in next to Thornton on the window seat, propping his legs over Thornton’s lap. Thornton made a horrified noise as Beresford’s foot collided with his book, and pushed it to the floor. But Beresford showed no sign of ceasing such willful behavior. 

“Dear Thornton. I have made you rather cross with me these past few days.”

“You have not.”

“I did indeed. And shall continue to do so.” 

Sighing, slumping further forward into Thornton’s rigid shoulders, Beresford took one of Thornton’s spindly forearms between his palms, toying it back and forth. They sat in silence for no more than a second’s pause before Beresford spoke again, his reedy voice echoing through the room. 

“Sometimes I imagine you shall not know me in another fortnight. I may become another man entirely. Mayhaps not even a man. A wretched sort of creature with no power of rational thought at all.”

Now aware that he could not announce himself without appearing rude, James held his breath, and hoped his luck might hold.

“I do not think that is so.” Thornton’s fierce gaze no longer seemed to be directed at Beresford, but to their entwined arms.

“Will you continue to esteem me when such matters come to pass, my dear Thornton?”

“Beresford, there is no point in talking on such nonsense.”

“Shall you keep me to the very end?”

Thornton flinched, shutting his eyes tight. “ _ William Carr _ .”

Beresford merely made a mournful noise, soft as the coo of a dove, and sat up against the cushion before flinging himself into Thornton’s side once more. “Then we shall not talk of it to-day, as it upsets you. Kiss me, Hardy.”

A muscle twitched in Thornton’s jaw. “I am not Hardy; neither are you Nelson.”

“ _ Kiss me _ , Hardy,” repeated Beresford, with added emphasis.

The imperious iron finally dissolved from Thornton’s gaze. Though his flinty gaze now regarded Lord Beresford — whose Christian name was apparently William — with all their usual sharpness, it lent him the air of one who was observing all rather closely as opposed to one who was merely annoyed. Slowly and with great purpose, Thornton reached down, took Beresford’s pale, creased hand between both of his, and lifted it to his mouth, palm up.

James stared open-mouthed as Thornton brushed his thin mouth across the soft flesh there—once, twice, thrice, as reverently as if he had never taken such liberties before. Although clearly, he had. Turning Beresford’s hand over, he repeated this motion.

Beresford just sighed as Thornton raised his head, and appeared supremely content. “And my heart hath been secretly enticed, or my mouth hath kissed my hand.”

Wordless, Thornton lowered Beresford’s hand back to the window-seat.

“My darling old silly.” Beresford beamed at him again, and bumped their shoulders together, playful. “You are so very handsome in this light.”

Heart in his mouth, James stole away as quietly as he could, not daring to run till he was outside the servants’ entrance and could quicken his steps without being seen. He hurried back to the path and through the copse of trees separating Thornford from the rest of the property. He waited even longer before finally leaving the path, flinging himself down under the nearest tree and bursting into tears, clutching his prized gift box to his chest all the while.

God in heaven. He did not merely wish for Francis to appreciate or esteem him, or to go on the way they had ever since their return. James wished for his  _ love _ . He wished to be loved by Francis—wholly, shamelessly, carnally—and such a wish could never be so.

Alone beneath the shade of the trees, James wept until he had no more tears to spare, and then got up to return home, holding his beloved gift ever tighter as part of his newfound resolve. If the status quo was all he could ever hope to receive from Francis, then it must be enough. James would  _ make  _ it be enough. Better to have only friendship and brotherly regard than to lose Francis from his life in any capacity. Better to make the best of what they had than to mope needlessly along. James thought again about Beresford and Thornton, at the tenderness they shared, and his heart ached anew.

When he got home, he claimed a headache and retired to bed, draping the gown across the middle of the coverlet and stroking one hand over its middle. Imagining he could do the same to the man with whom he shared this bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Francis obviously comes from the [Matthew Cuthbert school of affection](https://www.cs.cmu.edu/~rgs/anne-XXV.html), where you don't tell someone you care about them so much as have a panic attack in a hardware store and buy a ton of stuff you don't need instead. Although I could use twenty pounds of brown sugar.
> 
> James's jifu robe had several design inspirations, including [this](https://www.christies.com/lotfinder/textiles-costume/a-five-color-cloud-embroidered-blue-silk-gauze-summer-5048760-details.aspx?from=salesummery&intobjectid=5048760&sid=613cc7cc-e170-4472-aa6b-fea53042249b), [this](https://www.christies.com/lotfinder/textiles-costume/an-extremely-rare-gold-silver-and-blue-5048761-details.aspx?from=salesummery&intObjectID=5048761), and [this](https://www.christies.com/lotfinder/textiles-costume/a-rare-embroidered-red-satin-han-chinese-5048822-details.aspx?from=salesummery&intObjectID=5048822&sid=4fe6088c-78ce-4900-894f-195ddb5dc15b).
> 
> Also, Beresford and Thornton really grew on me. What can I say?


	6. Chapter 6

_My dear Frank, you will forgive me for not observing the usual pleasantries to-day -- as the hour and my condition grows ever longer thus my letters become far shorter than are strictly warranted! Thus I shall be brief: there has been no quarrel, surely?_

The sound of the silverware drawer opening and closing pulled Francis from Ann’s letter; across the room, James was preparing a cup of tea, wearing a pair of rumpled trousers and shirtsleeves. Plain as the clothes were, and sleep-flushed as James still looked, Francis ought not have been affected so bodily—and yet all he could do was stare at the man.

“Feeling any better?” he asked, attempting to disguise his own disquieting thoughts.

James shrugged, sighing rather loudly. “A bit.” His gaze turned to the window, where a slight trickle of rain now threatened to turn into a summer storm. The sky beyond their windows had gone dark and grey, as if they were expecting a _piteraq_ rather than rain. “I suppose Roger will not come to-day.”

“No.” Francis got annoyed just thinking of young Roger and how prone he was to gaping at James. “I doubt _Roger_ will call on us in this weather.”

“You seem happy,” was all James said.

Francis waved away the comment, although it irked him to be so accurately characterized. “Nothing of the kind.”

“Naturally. ‘Tis why you practically snarled the boy’s name. You are ease personified.”

_“James.”_

“Do I speak false?”

“More like damned irritating, perhaps.”

Instead of demurring, or perhaps pleading for peace, James raised his head and met Francis’s churlish gaze dead-on, his eyes glittering in a way Francis had not seen in many years. “You find such truths irritating _,_ Francis? Why?”

Francis just growled, and got up from his seat. “It’s too bloody early to have this conversation.”

“Is it? You provoked such topics, after all. You are the man so damned set against my having occupations—”

“When the hell have I ever prevented you from having occupations?”

“For Christ’s sake, Francis, I was hardly allowed to lift so much as a case of jam jars when we arrived. You refused my help for all but the damned planting! And now you grow irritated because I have somehow taken a liking to—”

“Will you stop using that word! If I am as churlish as you so charge, if you truly despise living here so bodily, then by all means, call over to _young Roger’s_ and plant all the goddamned flowers you desire! I am sure he’ll be delighted at having additional hours to gawk at you!”

James stared back at him as if he were a perfect stranger. Whatever he had meant to say in reply clearly eluded him now. He bit the inside of his mouth and lips before speaking again. “Gawking?”

“Damn your ears,” growled Francis, as his face grew heated. “That is not what I meant.”

“No!” James barked this at quarterdeck volume. “You have stated the issue precisely as you meant it. Now I am asking why you should characterize—”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What does it matter which adjective I’ve used? Do they not all prove my point? Are the meanings not interchangeable? He looks at you!”

“There is a clear and delineated difference! And honestly, Francis, how in God’s name am I supposed to instruct the lad in his many duties if he cannot even see me?”

Francis shut his eyes, repeated it again. “I meant nothing of instruction, damn it! He _looks_ at you! Do you not know it?”

“Why the hell should—?” James fell silent for a moment before speaking again, less forceful this time. “You called it gawking. What might he see?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Francis growled, still not meeting James’s searching gaze.

“Then what do you see when you look at me?”

Francis’s head jerked up. He met James’s searching expression; his stomach swooped alarmingly. “I’ll not be party to such—”

James moved even closer; a challenge. His eyes flashed. “What do you see when you look at me, Francis?”

A small, soft noise hitched in the back of Francis’s throat. “James, don’t.”

_You will despise me. You will mock me. I cannot say it._

He felt blindly behind him for the doorknob, and yanked the door open, stumbling out onto the porch to take in a breath of cool air, intending to march directly into the pouring rain. But before he could take so much as a step forward, James’s hand encircled his wrist.

“You would run from the question?” 

His taut grip did not hurt, but Francis still felt as if he were pinned bodily to the ground. He could not force his feet to shift. “I am not _running_.”

“You are. And it’s—good Christ. You have done this for months. All the long walks at Blackheath. All these hours in the fields. What… Francis, what do you hide from me?”

“Please, James.” He had to shut his eyes again; he could not meet that searching gaze without confessing all. “It is truly nothing.”

“Then why should you not look at me now?”

“I-I,” Francis felt very close to tears, and was ashamed at making such distress fully visible. “I _do_ look at you, James. I have always...”

His voice faltered on the last word, and he could not finish the sentence.

“Tell me,” James beseeched, clutching at his shirtsleeves. The cuffs dug into his skin. “Good or ill. Whatever your thoughts, I would hear them. I would know the truth above all else. What do you see when you look at me, Francis?”

Francis winced, and finally opened his eyes, meeting James’s stricken gaze with the resignation of a man facing an imminent demise. He did not know if he could voice such complex thoughts in all the ways James deserved to hear aloud. He did not know if he could speak the words at all. His voice was barely a whisper. “Everything.”

James leaned back by reflex, clearly ready to fight against any unfair or objectionable charge, but then stopped. His hands fell away from Francis’s wrists. Shock bloomed across his face, rippling pink. “What?”

“ _Everything_ , James,” repeated Francis in a rasp.

He could be the object of derision no longer. Turning on his heel, he strode out into the rain, letting it pelt against his face and chest and arms with no regard for where he was going or how he was dressed. The tears he could no longer contain now mingled with the water on his cheeks. He wanted to flee into the wilderness and never behold another living person. He wanted to clasp James to his breast and demand understanding—swear that he would always have his friendship. But he could not stop. 

Francis had no sooner crested the slight hill above their house than James caught up to him, and cut off his path forward, holding both hands out between them as if the gesture alone might push Francis to a stop.

“Please.” Bedraggled, with his hair hanging wild around his face, James looked pale and desperate, as if one wrong word might send him into weeping. “Please wait.”

Hanging his head, glancing down into the garden and the fields beyond, Francis stopped walking, and could say no more. 

Moving forward, James pressed both hands to Francis’s shoulders; his fingers warmed cold bare skin as they curled around his sodden sleeves. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the pelting rain. “Is that what you would have from me, Francis? Everything?”

Stunned, Francis nodded.

With no more warning than that, James leaned forward and pressed his lips to Francis’s, in a kiss so soft and brief it made him ache. When he pulled back, he was slightly flushed, and bit his lip in clear nervousness, as if he thought Francis had not cared for the gesture.

“I would give it,” he said softly, his fingers tightening on Francis’s shoulders. “Good Christ, Francis. I would give you all freely.”

Francis only had time enough to gape before James surged forward and kissed him again, deeper this time, threading his fingers through the sides of his hair as they embraced. By the time they broke apart, they were both winded, the rain was lashing them in great gusting sheets, and Francis was shivering from far more than cold. He clung to James in desperation, needing him close but having no words to express why nor how.

“Please, James,” was all he could say.

James kissed him again. Clinging to each other, they stumbled back down the hill and onto the porch. They were no sooner shielded from the elements by the half-open porch door than James crowded him up against the doorframe, and began to let his hands wander: first, through the back of Francis’s hair, then down his neck and shoulders, then around his sides.

“Christ, yes.” Francis pushed his hips into James’s lean, hard thigh, desperate for more. When James ghosted his hands along the small of Francis’s back, a dribble of fluid seeped into Francis’s linens, and he whimpered aloud, breaking the kiss and pressing his forehead into James’s shoulder. “I need—”

Wet and wild-eyed, James hurried them inside, slipping his hand over the front of Francis’s trousers right there at the kitchen table; Francis’s knees buckled at the sensation, and he had to slump into the nearest chair, clumsily pulling James down atop him. 

“Oh, god, Francis.” Softly, experimental, James squeezed him through the soaked fabric of his trousers. Francis moaned aloud. “You feel wonderful.”

He kissed Francis again, and slid his tongue into Francis’s mouth this time; coupled with the gentle strokes of his hand, the dual sensations made Francis’s head spin. 

“I would have you on me, right now,” James groaned into Francis’s mouth between kisses; Francis made a desperate sound, fumbling at James’s shirtsleeves as James began to kiss down his neck.

As James’s caresses sped up, Francis strained and cried out against the touch. He wouldn’t last. “James, ‘m—Jesus Christ, I—”

With a mischievous noise, James bent lower, opened his mouth and sucked hard at the hinge of Francis’s throat.

“Fuck!” Crying out, Francis gripped James’s shirt in tight fists as his body strung taut as a sail, spurting messy into his own trousers. His eyes rolled back in his head at experiencing such visceral pleasure after so long denied. His legs shook uncontrollably, his breath came in gasps, and the pulsing waves shoring up within his belly were relentless. He babbled exclamations and encouragements and praise with no idea of the words he spoke.

When Francis came back to himself, James was sitting fully astride his lap, humming in a pleased way and pressing soft kisses to the side of his neck. He traced along Francis’s temples and jaw with reverent fingers. “All right?”

“Y-yes.” Francis stuttered, still adrift. “S-sorry. I, ah, meant to…”

“Plenty of time.” James hushed him, pressed another kiss to the cleft in his chin. “Entire day, if you like.”

After a few more minutes, the furious throbbing finally receded from Francis’s body, leaving him pliant and relaxed. Smiling ear-to-ear because he could now do so, he palmed James’s hips between his hands, sighing over the soft inhale of breath this simple touch elicited. The low-burning restlessness usually stoked to flame by James’s mere presence had been replaced by an all-consuming edict: to touch. He must feel James’s skin against his. He would see him without these rumpled clothes. He would watch James go off, too.

Another thought popped into his mind: the first lucid one to arrive since he had so abruptly let go. “The entire day?”

“Well.” James raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised to have his words spoken back to him. “Man must have ambitions.”

[Helpless, stunned, Francis began to laugh. “You _rascal_.”](https://64.media.tumblr.com/63f0c036a3e0c6d4322c8cdc1f6f3142/6d77169649071e68-32/s1280x1920/e3fc969ee91aad183b9a2f4620e5d23157560331.png)

Snickering, James hid his face in Francis’s neck.

As they laughed together, Francis traced an idle fingertip across the collar of James’s shirt, enjoying how James squirmed under such small caresses. His own smile only grew wider. “I could be partial to such base ambitions.”

When James met his gaze again, his eyes were dark. Slowly, he ran one hand down Francis’s stomach and between their bodies, letting his fingers splay just beneath the waistband of Francis’s trousers. “I hope to find out many of your own partialities.” 

James rolled his hips forward, very purposefully, so that Francis might feel James’s own hardness between them. Bringing his fingers up, the tips of the first two now glazed with Francis’s elementals, James sucked these same fingers into his mouth, keeping eye contact with Francis for a long moment before letting his eyes flutter closed.

Francis’s breath hitched, and he swore aloud as his cock gave an interested and optimistic twitch at the sight. 

They talked no more of flowers that day.

  
  


##

  
  


When the sun rose the next morning, Francis could hardly believe the difference in circumstance between one day and the next. Yesterday, he’d awoken to the usual insistent ache, and the torturous knowledge that young Roger would soon arrive to stare at James and drive Francis to another day of morbing. All of which now seemed a distant, unhappy dream compared to how he awoke now.

Draped over Francis’s body, still gloriously naked beneath the counterpane, lay James, who looked as peaceful and relaxed in his dozing as Francis had ever seen him. When Francis glanced down, and met his soft gaze, James stirred and smiled. This innocent, soft expression sent a rush of tenderness into Francis’s chest.

Insensible of this feeling, James yawned and swiped at sleep-heavy eyes with one hand. “Have I remained a man of my word, sir?”

“Bloody well know you have,” answered Francis, although he smiled, too, kneading his palms up and down James’s back. “They teach frigging on the _HMS Excellent,_ also?”

James gave him a mischievous look. “Rocketeering of the back settlements.”

There was a short silence.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Francis exclaimed. Any hint of scolding in the words was punctured by a bout of wild laughter.

Sitting up, James made a great show of appearing offended, folding both arms over his chest as if he were a hot-tempered middie. “How dare you malign the curricula of that excellent academy.” But even he could not bite back the humour that threatened to overtake his face. “Why, I ought to drag you outside and defend its honour at once.”

“Defend it from here. It’s too bloody cold,” Francis pleaded, tugging at James’s hips in an attempt to bring him back down. “James.”

“Hm?” came the arch reply, but it was soon punctuated by a sigh as James lowered himself back down, brushing errant strands of hair from Francis’s face as he leaned in. “Well, I shan’t leave you chilled so soon.”

Francis meant to reply, but any greeting he might have made was soon rendered useless as James kissed him, trailing softly-callused fingers across his jaw and shoulders and licking into his mouth till he was insensible with desire. It was not until he was rutting up against James’s flexed thighs that James finally pulled away, first kissing his way down Francis’s neck and then moving down the bed. 

“Oh, Christ,” Francis breathed, as James licked a thick stripe across the seam where his leg met his trunk. Without preamble, James bent his head further, suckling the tip of Francis’s cock into his mouth. Francis jerked in surprise, hissing, “James.”

James made that happy hum again, sending Francis into a shudder of delight. Every languid dip of James’s head brought greater heights of pleasure, as did the noises he made throughout. One might have thought James was the man in ecstasies given how he moaned and sighed and wriggled against the bed as he worked.

After several minutes, Francis was on the precipice of his control. He did his best to stave off utter embarrassment, trying to picture all those insufferable Admiralty dinners in an attempt to prolong his crisis, but the few memories of softly-lit parlors only served to make him think of James in full dress uniform, brushing glossy curls away from his face with white-gloved hands—the same glossy curls Francis now gripped in tight fists—and the turn of his pretty mouth whenever he spoke—the same hot, wet mouth into which he now thrusted with messy abandon, oh, Christ and all the saints above, don’t stop, don’t stop—

Grunting, Francis went rigid and spent, trembling in James’s hold before collapsing backwards into the bed. When he had regained a few of his faculties, he glanced down at James, who had now pillowed his head on Francis’s lower belly, and looked surprisingly pliant.

Francis stroked the fine hair at the nape of James’s neck, hoping he had not overly exerted himself. “Do you not require attention, also?”

James’s body shook with a burst of quiet mirth. He levered himself up on one elbow, revealing a gleam of spend painted against his stomach and thigh, part of the bed linens, and even Francis’s calf. The darkly amused eyebrow he raised in answer to Francis’s silent dismay said all that was needed.

“Oh.” Francis blushed all the way to his ears at such visible evidence. James had enjoyed himself so thoroughly? Without even being touched?

“Oh, indeed,” replied James, as airy as if he had heard Francis’s very thought expressed aloud. He kissed Francis’s middle in a lax, pleased manner before crawling back up the bed and resettling himself at Francis’s side. “Now shift yourself, sir. We’re going to have a lie-in.”

“No time,” protested Francis, even as he relaxed back into his pillow. “We’ve the vegetable market today, and then planting, and then tea at Thornford.”

“All the better that we require another hour of sleep,” murmured James, shutting his eyes.

Sighing, unable and frankly unwilling to find other alternatives to this plan, Francis settled back against the pillows and let his mind drift once more.

##

In Thornford’s drawing room, James reclined on one end of the chesterfield as dear Nebet had once lounged in the _Clio_ ’s main sails. With Francis sitting next to him, and only the tea service separating them from friends, he was quite at his leisure. 

From his usual chair, Thornton dropped a lump of sugar into his tea, stirring the steaming liquid at a slow, purposeful pace before blotting the bowl of his spoon against the rim, and setting the utensil aside. “Sir Francis, your absence was noted at the market this morning.”

“Really?” asked Francis, visibly puzzled, as if he had never before heard those words uttered in that order. 

“Oh, yes.” Beresford answered on Thornton’s behalf, as the latter was now mid-bite of a raisin teacake, “Poor old Mister Mackay had put aside a number of Brandywine seeds especially for Sir James’s new plot.”

“How kind of him.” James pressed a hand to his heart. “I don’t believe we will go into town before Wednesday next, but if you happen upon him before the market, please convey my sincere thanks.”

“Naturally, sir, of course!” Lord Beresford replied. “Neither of you are in ill health, I do hope? Word from my nephew is that a brutish cold currently traverses the Kentish countryside.”

“No, no, dear Lord Beresford, nothing so doleful as all that.” James had to restrain himself from donning a positively wolfish smile, but did grant himself leave to recline a bit further into the chesterfield than military precision should have allowed. “I daresay I find mornings in the country more invigorating than ever before.”

Francis became extremely interested in studying the portraiture to the left of the sitting area. James hid a smile as he saw a slight blush creep up past the poor man’s cravat.

“Indeed. In what way?” asked Thornton, appearing skeptical.

“Oh, Lieutenant-General, do not tease the poor gentleman! If Sir James says he is invigorated by fresh air and English soil, then so he must be!”

“I never tease, Lord Beresford,” Thornton replied, all calm. “Merely inquiring as to his reasoning on the matter.”

“Well, my reasoning is simple indeed.” James set down his cup so he could better gesture with his hands. “After many years dedicated to Her Majesty’s service, I am now dedicated to the far messier business of self-determination.” He made a great show of displaying his browned, callused fingers. “While the state of my nails on a sunny afternoon might now single me out for duty owing, the novelty of said state and my part within it has swelled my overall cheer to new proportions.”

“Not as burgeoning as your zest for heritage tomatoes, apparently,” murmured Francis, whose color was still higher than normal.

“Well,” said James, casting a toothy smile upon the group, “that is true, sir. Let us not tempt fortune with further braggadocio. Perhaps I ought to take a horticulture lesson from the French before such fine compliments get the better of my meagre botany skills. As the saying goes, _L’pomme d’amour propose, et l’homme dispose.”_

Beresford let out a blast of loud laughter, and clapped James on the shoulder so enthusiastically it knocked the biscuit from James’s hand down to the carpet. Even the fearful Thornton cracked a thin-lipped smile, if only briefly and behind his napkin.

And meanwhile, Francis—shy, lovely, darling Francis—grinned so widely James could see the gap between his front teeth, and blushed very deeply for a man who claimed not to understand a word of spoken French.

“Ah, Sir James,” said Beresford, wiping his eyes as the laughter abated, “truly an inspired jest.”

“Well,” James answered, and flicked a lock of hair from his face with one toss of his head—noting the way Francis glanced sidelong at him as he did so, “only on account of such inspiring company.”

After the tea was done, James was fully prepared for Thornton and Francis to excuse themselves for an hour or so of chess, so he could not contain his surprise when Thornton rose from the table, put his napkin aside, and turned to Francis with a curt, “Sir Francis, you are familiar with the Double Matthew Walker knot, yes?”

“Well, I could tie one,” said Francis, cocking a suspicious brow. “Or un-tie, as the case may be. Although the Matthew Walkers are highly decorative...there are perhaps a dozen other knots equally suited for rigging cordage, if that is what you are after.”

“Excellent,” said Thornton, indicating Francis should follow him. “Then you must show me straightaway.”

Dutifully, Francis got up, and could give no more than a befuddled glance in James’s direction before he was being marched out into the hall. James looked to Beresford for some clue as to what was going on; shushing him, Beresford waved one hand to indicate he should say nothing till the others were out of the room. They waited another moment, until the footsteps had faded, before Beresford finally spoke.

“Oh, Sir James, thank goodness we may finally speak candidly. I was worried dear old Thornton might give the game away too soon! Did you not see the discomfiture in his bearing as we took our tea?”

“No,” answered James, turning to face him. “I daresay I did not. Perhaps I mistook it for indigestion.”

“Tosh, Sir James! I declare his enthusiasm was as obvious as the rising sun.” Thumping down onto the far end of the sofa, Beresford now volleyed one of the small pillows between his hands, a habit he only indulged in when his Lieutenant-General was out of the room. “But somewhat charming in its directness. _Your absence was noted,_ indeed. Noted by whom, sir? And in what manner?”

“Ah ha.” James raised an eyebrow. “You know something.”

Beresford pretended at sternness, with a great _harrumph_ more suited to the halls of the Admiralty than to Thornford’s drawing room. “I have knowledge of a great many things, young sir, and thus you shall make your meaning plain!”

“Well, I am now quite convinced that your Lieutenant-General did not take Captain Crozier aside for mere advice on rigging knots.”

Beresford’s dark eyes twinkled behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Sir Francis’s birthday is upcoming at the end of the summer, is it not?”

“It is,” said James. “Or, well. Sixteenth of September.”

“And I am given to understand that the gentleman does not own a proper chess set, is that correct?”

“No,” said James, as a jolt of recognition struck him. “I mean, we, ah. Had to leave it on _Terror_ , although I thought of smuggling it into my own pack. And he has made no arrangements to procure another. Are you suggesting that…?”

“Thornton ordered one at the market nearly two fortnights past, and has been positively bursting to give it over to his especial friend, so that they may play in another location apart from our drawing room. Oh! God’s blood, Sir James, I am most thankful to share this fine secret at last. I have promised not a word should escape my lips and have come damnably close to revealing all on numerous occasions!”

“Thornton bought Francis a birthday present?” James understood why Beresford had used the word charming, before; it was a well-thought gift, and a rather moving one, coming from a new friend. “Truly?”

“Indeed he did, Sir James.” Beresford’s face radiated a serene fondness; James was certain it was the expression he himself wore whenever he talked about Francis for too long. “Mark you, it was akin to watching a schoolboy decide what little treat to offer up to a kindred fellow from his lunch pail. Mr. Martin is a capital woodworker, you know, and thus we must have remained at the stall for over an hour whilst they discussed early particulars. Should not the board be made of cedar, so that it lends the air a pleasant scent? Should it instead comprise walnut and hickory, to better mimic the colours of its players? Are the pieces to be made alongside the box, or ought they be made separate from another material? There were a half-dozen letters exchanged following that initial conversation. I have quite lost track of its progress.”

“Lord Beresford, I do not know how we shall ever thank you and the Lieutenant-General for your generous friendship.” James chose his words carefully. “Francis is a practical man in many respects, but when it comes to matters of the heart, you will find no man more loyal nor heedlessly steadfast.”

“Ah, Sir James.” Beresford’s usually sunny gaze had gained a sharper, singular clarity. For a moment, James could picture how he must have looked at Thornton’s age, or perhaps even at Francis’s age; jolly and stout to a stranger, but with a reserve of incisive thought rarely shown in the drawing rooms of the sociable world. “Pray, feel no need to educate me on your Captain’s upstanding character. I know it well, sir. I had knowledge of it the first time he inquired into Thornton’s Irish family, with no whisper of derision or voluble self-mockery. And I gained further knowledge of it when he took pains to socialize with Thornton at Marcus Manor, though his apprehension of the event entire was obvious and delineated. Dear old Thornton is rather a solitary creature, out of habit if not in temperament. I daresay many in the village are merely afeared of speaking impulsively and receiving one of his brisk letters, thus they keep a cool distance. A greeting here, a well-wish there. But never a true overture of fellowship. What I mean to say, and what I shall tell you in strictest confidence, is that Thornton is not a man accustomed to receiving the hand of friendship.”

“Nor is Francis,” offered James, inclining his head to indicate he had caught Beresford’s meaning. “Such patterns can make one rather melancholy.”

“Indeed.” Beresford’s eyes flicked toward the door, as if he were listening for footsteps. Quickly, as if he had not even looked askance, he continued. “At Bladensburg, Thornton was given command of a brigade including the eighty-fifth foot, the light infantry companies of the fourth, twenty-first, and forty-fourth regiments, and a company of marines. Over eleven hundred men. The infantry took the bridge, but he was badly wounded, and they sustained heavy casualties. One hundred and eighty four total. Many perished without sustaining so much a scratch. Heatstroke. Fever. The strain of the march.”

James processed this information as best he could. “Good lord.”

“Now, one could argue Bladensburg was altogether a success, as British forces routed the defenders, and marched unopposed to Washington thereafter. All told, Thornton led his men admirably. But he was taken prisoner as a result of his injuries, from August through October. By the time he was returned safely to British hands, Major-General Ross was dead. The troops then retreated to New Orleans, where Thornton fought the only successful attack on the American line. Across the river, he was wounded again, and learnt of Packenham’s death as well as the failure of the main attack, forcing them to retreat to the fleet.”

“I did not know that,” said James.

“Well.” Beresford shrugged, continuing to toy the small pillow between both hands as a small cat might bat at a ball of yarn. “It is a subject not well-suited for parlor conversation. But these are but a few reasons for his continued melancholy.”

“I daresay bouts of melancholy are understandable enough. He must carry that weight with him, always,” James said lightly, although they both knew the seriousness of such a charge. “As Francis did. And does.”

“As do you.”

It was James’s turn to shrug.

“As do we all. My point, dear boy, is this: the burden of command is unique to each man. But the burdens of loss, of self-recrimination, of facing both the decisions one has made in battles previous as well as those they must make each day thereafter, in order that they should survive….that is the burden of an officer’s life, is it not?”

“Yes,” whispered James.

“And it is not one to be shouldered alone.” Beresford cast another quick glance to the door, before tossing the small pillow directly at James. “How happy I am that you and your friend are able to share it.”

James caught the throw pillow, and gave Beresford a tremulous smile before tossing it back, an easy underhand arc. 

“You, also.”

  
  
  
  


“No good,” Francis pointed at the first length of rope lying across the dining room table, which he had unlaid in order to demonstrate the knot in question, and Thornton had now re-tied. “Second piece is too slack.”

Thornton grumbled, but they moved down the table to the second length of rope. “And this?”

“Better, but you’ve done something funny with the overhand piece.” Francis picked up this piece to better study the back of the knot; its top two strands appeared to be tangled. “I’m no foretop, but I’d wager this tangle should put added strain on the rope once you’ve laid it all up again.”

“And the third?”

Francis gave him an apologetic, clenched-teeth grimace in lieu of an answer. Thornton dropped this final length of rope back onto the table with a huff of disgust. “Drat.”

“Well.” Francis waved a hand. “As I said, it is highly decorative. Two overhand knots might work just as well. Or, ah, perhaps a cow hitch and a bowline. Depending on its use. Good for hoisting.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

“I have been told,” Thornton said shortly, still surveying the knotted lengths of rope, “that Sir James had a ship’s dog in the North.”

“Oh.” Francis frowned in surprise. He did not think James would have mentioned the expedition to anyone apart from the Rosses, but perhaps the subject had come up on the day they first saw the puppies, and Lord Beresford got it mixed up in the retelling. “Well. Not entirely accurate. The dog was mine. _Erebus_ had Jacko—a capuchin monkey. Present to Sir John from his wife. Neptune was her gift to me.”

“Fascinating.”

Francis thought briefly of Sir John, and then of the early days of their voyage, when Neptune would welcome the _Erebus_ party aboard. He had a sudden, blurry memory of James kneeling down to greet Neptune on some similar occasion. Was it in the Great Cabin before a command meeting? Directly below decks, just after they had boarded? He could not be sure. The thought of forgetting even the smallest part of James’s joy pained him. There was so little joy to be had in those early years.

“Yes. Neptune was…” Francis trailed off, and pulled a face, suddenly worried all his thoughts were plainly visible. “Well. All a sailor should want in a ship’s dog.”

He said nothing else, merely cleared his throat.

“Lord Beresford is preparing to sell the litter within the month,” said Thornton after a moment. “And I have noticed how well Sir James got on with the pups. Likely, Beresford shall inquire into whether you wish to take one.”

“Oh.” Francis understood, now. Of course Beresford would ask, and of course James would leap at the chance. “Yes. That is, I think Sir James would like that very much. And I have no objection. They’re useful creatures.”

“Quite.” Thornton turned away from the table, now. Francis looked down and realized, with bemusement, that the man was wearing a pair of brocade slippers as opposed to proper shoes. He had never noticed Thornton’s lack of shoes before. It made him seem equally as odd as Beresford, if not more so. “You may select whichever suits your needs. Lord Beresford is not particularly attached to any of them, save Four. I am told she will make an excellent breeder.”

“Which one is Four?” Francis asked.

“One of the greys.”

“Yes, of course; I should have remembered that. But the, ah, black and white….?”

“Two,” said Thornton, raising an eyebrow. “As yet unclaimed.”

“Good.”

“I shall inform Lord Beresford.” A short pause; Thornton’s slippers shifted audibly against the carpet. “If you prefer it, we could deliver him within the fortnight.”

Francis imagined the giddiness on James’s face: he would open the front door only to be bowled over by thirty pounds of fluffy excitable pup. “Yes, I—think that would be best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Need some gorgeous Fitzier lap frottage art? [We've got you covered!](https://brainyraccoons.tumblr.com/post/627611375849684992/smiling-ear-to-ear-because-he-could-now-do-so)
> 
> Don't forget, the awesome @brainyraccoons made a killer playlist for this fic. [You can listen to it here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3LYHgDj5NAuw4wSpYvKBuZ?si=6Y3o9Si-RuSPA4bgupX96w). Enjoy some songs that may or may not be about rain and romance and pining for your fellow Captain!
> 
> I totally stole L'homme propose... from **brostoevsky** 's excellent fic [Principles of Magnetism](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15870483/chapters/36974205), only to bastardize it for my own purposes. This extremely rough translation is now: _L'pomme d'amour propose, et l'homme dispose._ The tomato (or fruit of love) proposes and man disposes. Because Victorians thought of tomatoes as aphrodisiacs, apparently. Also: I know maybe ten words of French.
> 
> The real Sir William Thornton was indeed wounded at Bladensburg (aka, the part of the War of 1812 that let British forces march down through Maryland and to the burning of Washington basically unopposed. Then-president Madison almost got captured, the White House got torched, etc.) The Chesapeake campaign ended with the Battle of Baltimore, where one shiny new HMS Terror was part of the naval siege, just before the English beat a hasty retreat toward New Orleans. Ah, history.
> 
> The slippers are an OG Star Wars/Peter Cushing reference. [It's funnier if he tells this story.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdXLDvx_tHQ)


	7. Chapter 7

A few days later, Francis was finishing off the last of his toast when they heard a slow-moving coach in the distance.

“Sounds like it’s coming from town,” Francis noted, as they listened to the clack of sedate hoofbeats and squealing wheels against gravel. 

“Probably old Mr. Carter today, instead of the boys.” James put aside his fresh cup of tea and rose from the table, clapping a hand to Francis’s back with a wry smile. “I’ll get it. You eat.”

Francis contented himself with the rest of the toast as well as a sip of James’s tea, since it was hot and his own tea had been consumed long ago in a soporific haze. He’d no sooner put back the mug next to James’s plate when James reappeared, already sifting through several envelopes as he walked back to the table.

“Carter says hello and to stop being so damn popular. Veritable flood today. Dundy’s written back. One from Will. One from Ann. Actually, two from the Rosses. Think the first got waylaid.” 

James put the envelopes in question next to Francis’s plate of crumbs, hovering by his chair instead of sitting down. 

Francis saw the large tea stain on the front of the one James indicated was waylaid, and had to smile as he reached for it. “Small wonder. Blots out half the address to boot.”

“Well, there’s the postmaster for you,” offered James. “I daresay that—”

Opening the letter, Francis was gratified to see it was from Ross, quickly scanning the first sentence:  _ Sorry for not writing sooner, old man, but we have just been delivered of our newest houseguest and I dare say I have never been more surprised. A girl—Charlotte—healthy and hungry, to our mutual delight. Her mother is both charmingly pleased and charmingly smug about this turn of events... _

James was very quiet. Francis was so absorbed in news of his godchild and the state of the Ross household that it took a few moments to realize he had stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence.

“What were you saying, before?”

No reply.

Francis glanced up, saw the seal of the Admiralty blazing black against creamy stationery, and understood at once. “What do they want?”

“Not  _ they.  _ Barrow,” James corrected. His jaw was set very tightly. “He wants to see me in person. On account of  _ our longheld degree of friendship _ .”

“I had heard his health was declining,” offered Francis, who tried not to think about the front page of this morning’s paper. Last month the Tsar had sent troops into the Danubian Principalities, and now there was talk of sending the fleet. If Francis were a betting man, he’d assume the Admiralty were now using the Ottoman peninsula as a bulwark. “Perhaps he just wishes to speak to you.”

_ Before he dies. _

James levied him a glare that meant he ought to know better than to expect sentimentality from a Secretary of the Admiralty, and particularly one so single-minded as Barrow. “Letter says to meet him at Whitehall on the fourteenth.”

“Meaning next week?” Francis could not keep the sudden flash of fear from his face, and tucked it down as far as he dared. They’d not press-gang James into a ship directly out of Whitehall. That could not be done, considering he’d been knighted. Even if there were an offer, James had a title, and was well-liked, and could be granted time to consider its implications. A day or so, perhaps more. “Well. Not as if you can claim to be busy, I suppose.”

_ Terribly sorry, Sir John, must send my sincerest condolences as I was rather hoping to celebrate an old Irish KCB’s birthday Saturday next. Perhaps instead of getting the blazes buggered out of me by said First on that occasion, I could visit your mausoleum of an office and comment on how fine the new paintings all are. _

“Francis.” James took his hand. “I would hear your thoughts aloud, if you please.”

“Thoughts,” scoffed Francis, even as he was warmed by the gesture of affection. “Expect no coherence from me this morning, James.”

“Of course I don’t.” James traced the bones of Francis’s fingers with the edge of one thumb. “I mean I would simply like to hear what you prefer. Barrow may not want to send me north, you know.”

Now it was Francis’s turn to glare at James.

“Obviously it would be atypical in all respects. But you have read the papers, same as I have. Just as you know that any assemblage of the fleet requires senior officers. And if we are lacking in Captains and Commanders in good standing the same way we lack available Lieutenants… perhaps there are not additional men to send north or south at all.”

“That would be….unprecedented.”

“War always is,” James said with a shrug, but he held fast to Francis’s hand, perhaps belying his true feelings on the matter. “If it does come to that, I trust you should have fewer objections to Crimea than the polar regions, present options considered?”

Francis let out a heavy sigh. “Do you really think they would send you to Crimea, James?”

Far from understanding the reason Francis had asked the obvious question, James bristled at it. The lines in his face deepened and his mouth shrank into a pinched shape, like the rind of a discarded lemon left to dry in a glass. “My skills are not so rusty as all that.”

“I mean no insult. Only that sending a known polar veteran to the Ottoman peninsula would be a strange decision on the part of the Admiralty, would it not?”

“Stranger than sending a graduate of _HMS Excellent_ directly to the Arctic? Particularly one who claimed he could _walk_ to the Pole?”

“Well, of course you—you are trained well in artillery. And have seen battle.” Francis was careful not to glance directly at James’s scars as he spoke. “You asked for my thoughts on the matter, thus I would give them. And,” he sighed again, “I suppose I wonder why it must be you who is assigned such orders.”

“Why should it not be?” James withdrew his hand, now; Francis noticed he was chewing the inside of his cheek before he spoke again. “I have led men through far worse. We both have.”

“James.”

“It is not as if I am an invalid, Francis, nor a dunce, nor filled with delusions of —”

“I know you are none of those things.” Francis could not even draw up his usual ire in answer to such impassioned anger; he was met at every turn with surprise and confusion and a terrible gnawing ache in the pit of his stomach. It rendered him quiet when it should have fueled vocal frustration. “You have proved your worth time and again. Christ, James! Half the village now assumes you to be some sort of mythic figure. Out in the field at all hours, toiling away, dancing madly with the widows at every gathering...”

“Do not mock me,” snapped James, color rising in his cheeks. The planes of his face were drawn taut as carved marble. “I’ll not abide that.”

“Christ, James, I will not and I do not. Merely pointing out that you need not hand over evidence of your good health to all and sundry like a godforsaken calling card. I am saying you need not feel compelled to accept any offer Barrow might make! You could resign your commission if he aims to send you north—you have a choice here!”

“What possible choice should I have? If I am to select between leading terrified, inexperienced men to battle during wartime, and leading terrified, inexperienced men to die in search of a  _ fucking ford in the ice _ , then I know damn well which of the two outcomes I should prefer!”

_ Leading them to die?  _ Francis’s stomach churned; he was thankful, suddenly, to be seated. If he were standing, he was uncertain if his legs would have held him up. When he could speak again, his voice was rough. “James.”

_ You must promise me. You cannot go. You cannot _ —

“No,” said James, waving one hand through the air, as if this gesture would repel the words from the house like a persistent gnat. “I will say no more now. And I must make my reply to Barrow, regardless.”

Snatching his coat from the rack, he left without another word.

  
  
  


For the rest of the day, Francis remained on edge. Even after James had returned home, shuffling back into the little parlor with a dejected slump to his shoulders, and sliding silently into Francis’s arms right there on the small loveseat, disquiet lingered between them. 

Francis mulled this over in the darkness long after they had turned in and put out the light. Although James appeared to sleep soundly, Francis could not sleep no matter how many positions he tried. Eventually, he gave up, knowing he would find no rest tonight, and lay awake in the dark studying the ceiling. 

He could not articulate why the idea of James leading men  _ anywhere  _ pained him so. On the ice, James had proved himself an excellent Captain and an even better Second; extending in every word and deed the most steadfast care and concern for their men. He had a winning personality in happy situations as well as perilous ones. He knew how to appear cheerful and confident, and was well-liked to boot. He could play at politics easily. Leaving out all those positive qualities, e’en to a shallow eye which might dwell only on the bearing of a Naval officer as opposed to his true fitness, there could be no deficit. James looked handsome in the uniform, and would speak well for the newspapers. Yes, he had become a fine ship’s captain, and he would make a fine expedition commander, if needed.

But he would be away, meaning Francis would be—

Knowing he would not sleep for another hour or two yet, Francis rolled out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown, making his way to the side porch by feel in the heavy darkness. Although the weather had begun to cool in preparation for autumn, it was still warm enough to be comfortable without additional layers.

Sighing, Francis sat down on the bare planks, facing the southeast fields, watching the remaining fireflies and glow worms flash their small signals as his eyes adjusted to the moonlight. Full moon tonight. Saturn and Jupiter in front of him, moving in their shared arc toward Sagittarius. Polaris and Ursa Minor at his back, along with Casseiopeia. In the rustling stillness, he thought he could just catch the rushing of the distant sea.

_ Alone. _

He would be alone if James was shipped off to sea. There would be no guarantee that James should return home safely. No guarantee he would  _ live.  _ Whilst James navigated treacherous waters and risked his life for his men, Francis would become unmoored. He would be denied sympathy from all but a select few friends, and even those friends, if well-meaning, should not be able to cheer him for long. They had lives of their own, families of their own. They could not lounge in Francis’s parlor at all hours of the day and night, making ridiculous jokes about typography errors in the newspaper. Nor should they make him a cup of tea in the mornings, and kiss his clean-scrubbed temple after they delivered it, as if tasked with something far more precious than steeping Ceylon in water and pouring in milk and sugar.

Christ. Francis shut his eyes against the wave of dread that threatened to break in his chest. Even his most beloved friends would be no substitute for James himself; could not dream of replacing his little songs or his humorous moods or the sweet noises he made sometimes when he was half-asleep. Some very fortunate steward would be there to notice all of these particulars instead of Francis—to greet him in the early mornings—to help him ready for bed at the end of a long, difficult day.

Was James truly fit to command again? Francis could not say. He was more or less healthy now, if prone to overexerting himself with physical labor from time to time. Even if the nightmares had not ceased, the sleepwalking had thankfully done so. In body, James was far from the ailing, skeletal wretch Francis had clung to on the ice night after night. Apart from the obvious hitch in his step when his bad hip ached, or the very slight tremor in the hand of the arm which had been pierced by the musket ball, a stranger should never look at James and see some infirm, pitiful creature in need of assistance. They would see only a man: a brave man, a strong man, whose striking scars told a story that he could not. The tale of a man who had cheated death at the end of the world not once but twice—hoodwinked the whole of society from within its narrow, stifling ranks—overcome the bar sinister and the most infinitesimal odds to become a knight of the realm and a sea captain. A man worthy of respect, and friendship, and all manner of good things that the world could provide. 

A lovely, cherished man.

_ “At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.” _

Surprised, Francis turned; silhouetted in the moonlight was James, in his  _ jifu  _ robe and slippers, now leaning against the doorframe with a lump of something else dangling from one hand. A fur, or perhaps a blanket.

“Sorry to wake you,” Francis murmured, turning back to the fields.

“You did not,” said James, as he came to sit next to Francis. Unrolling his bundle, he arranged these layers in a pleasing way before using Francis’s knee for leverage, lowering himself to the floor. “I simply awoke, reached for you, and you were not there.”

Francis gave him a slight smile, which grew wider when James continued:

“About which topics are we brooding tonight, dear Captain?”

“Christ.” He sighed again. “Merely my own condition. Or, rather, my future condition.” Francis waved a hand in front of him toward the empty fields. “In another month, perhaps you shall be sailing toward the fleet, performing all the duties of a Captain as well as those claimed by no man. Whereas I shall remain here, alone.”

“Francis,” said James.

“No.” Francis shook his head. “It’s true. Either way I am to be—oh, Christ.” A new and horrifying idea leapt to his head. He would wait here as would a fretful young bride, puttering around the house and the garden and the fields during the day, and pacing around his own rooms at night. “Believe it or not, I have begun to understand why Sophia turned down all my prior proposals. Beyond her not wishing to be married to me, that is.”

James’s brow contracted in a bewildered way, but he said nothing.

“The waiting,” clarified Francis, clearing his throat. He could not yet meet James’s eyes. “Not knowing where you are or how you look, if you are fed or hungry or worse. Not knowing if you are living or dead. Going without word for months or years at a time. I understand why a wife should not want to bear the weight of it all on my account. You have not even been given your orders, and already I find such unknowns intolerable.”

“Francis,” said James again, now clutching at the shoulder of his nightshirt. The planks of the porch creaked gently under their shifting weight. “Of course I would—”

Francis rushed on, heedless. “What I ought to do is tell you that you shall be a fine Captain again—you shall be, if that truly is your wish—but I’ve no real thought in my head save how much I shall miss you.”

Perhaps it was a trick of the moonlight, but James no longer appeared bewildered; he was blinking very rapidly, mouth contracting in a pursed shape that Francis had first glimpsed at Victory Point. Without a word, without so much as a hesitation, James took Francis’s face in both hands, leaned in, and kissed him.

Francis fell gladly into the kiss, and after some time, he felt drunk with the weight of it—dizzy from the slow ministrations of James’s hands roaming along his body and the soft, quick prick of James’s mouth nipping at tender skin, licking and soothing away all hurts with that clever tongue. By the time James had got a leg over Francis’s hips, and got Francis on his back in earnest, right there on the porch amid the other active night creatures, he was no longer silent.

“This,” he whispered, taking Francis’s aching cock in hand, causing Francis to sigh in delight despite the noticeable stiffness in his lower back, “is only for me.”

“Yes.” Bracketed by James’s slim legs across his hips and James’s arms clutching his shoulders, Francis felt like a trembling rose straining to reach the top of its trellis. “Yours.”

“And these,” James reached further down, toying gentle fingers around Francis’s stones till Francis groaned into the darkness, “are for me, also.”

“Take them,” rasped Francis, bucking up as James’s fingers traced down past their seam and between his legs, toward the lower deck, pressing in against the smooth span of skin here until— “James!”

A heady, hot pulse swept through his entire body, causing his eyes to flutter closed. Perhaps because of this, James was already removing his hands, fumbling a vial from the pocket of his jifu robe. He pulled the cork out by biting into it with his back molars, and spat it off the edge of the porch with an amused noise. Yanking up one sleeve, he poured oil into his hand, drizzling a generous measure of it directly onto Francis’s straining cock for good measure.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Francis hissed, bucking up hard as James caressed him slowly with a hand. Maddening tease. He was desperate for him now. “Let me have you.”

“You have me,” James answered, breathless, and with that, he moved forward, took Francis in hand, and sank backwards onto Francis’s cock.

Francis gasped and writhed when he realised James was already prepared for the breach, grasping for James’s hips with shaking hands as he bottomed out. “Christ!”

“Oh, Francis,” groaned James, now sounding slightly winded as he began to rock against Francis’s hips. “There.”

“You’re so beautiful,” Francis whispered as they quickened their movements, and he was, truly; in the moonlight, James’s olive skin glistened with the dew of sweat, lean muscles in his arms and legs and stomach tensing and contracting with every punctured thrust of Francis’s hips. His long dark hair pulsed with threads of gold, and his kiss-swollen lips and the tip of his beautiful cock blazed berry-black with passion. It was akin to being bedded by some woodland creature. It was more than any earthly thing. “James, James, lovely, James.”

“Oh, god, Francis, don’t stop.” James braced both hands on Francis’s chest, fingers scrabbling for purchase. “You feel so—”

“Look at you,” slurred Francis as he thrust up faster, drowning in the decadence of such loveliness, of falling apart in witness to such splendor, “lovely, darling James.”

Panting, James made a wordless whimpering sound, and dug his hands in tighter.

“So lovely, lovely James, luh—love you—Christ, love—”

“Say it,” James choked out, movements frenzied, his body tense as a wound-up watch. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” gasped Francis, and yanked James down to find his mouth, muffling his own cries and James’s in a heady, desperate kiss as they found their mutual release.

Afterward, their sweat-soaked forms soothed by the pleasant breeze stirring through the trees, Francis concentrated on the sensation of James’s body pressed to his: a sensation at once novel and timeless. Here was James’s breath, changing from ragged to slow and relaxed. He dragged a boneless hand up from the small of James’s back. Here at his ribs was James’s scar from Chinkiang, newly-healed flesh tight and knotted under his wandering fingers. Here were his strong shoulders, the faint claw marks of the damned ship’s cheetah, and the other musket scar on his arm, longer since the long walk. Pressed to Francis’s middle was James’s heart, still racing, whose comforting flutter Francis would know anywhere.

“‘M still lightheaded,” James confessed after a moment, low. “Good Christ.”

Francis made an affirming noise, meaning he was in no immediate hurry to get up. “If I recall correctly, we have all day to shift ourselves.”

“Francis.” James wheezed out an amused breath. “Say it again.”

“I love you.” Even knowing James’ partiality for him, Francis was still anxious to voice this thought aloud. “And have done for a long time. Since… well. Fort Resolute, perhaps.” 

“I thought you were going to say  _ since Terror _ .”

“Since—!”

“It is just as well you did not, because if you had said so I should have been forced to throw myself into the ocean, as I was sick for love of you even then.”

“Reckless creature,” huffed Francis. “I said nothing of  _ Terror _ .”

“Hmph.” James dipped his head to press a soft kiss to Francis’s chest, just along the high curve of his ribs, where his heart beat an insistent tempo against his skin. “Perhaps merely  _ Erebus _ , then.”

“Yes, James,” Francis echoed in what was meant to be a long-suffering voice, but only succeeded in being tender, “perhaps so. Perhaps Beechey, hm? Baffin Bay. Greenhithe.”

James pressed another kiss to Francis’s heart. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” murmured Francis, quiet.

“And I you,” James answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to **MasterofAllImagination** for talking me through the timeline re: Barrow. The real Barrow died during the Franklin Expedition. His cause of death: "giddiness in the head". I still don't know what that means, but either way I kept him alive for the purposes of this story.
> 
> “At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea" is from [Self-Dependence](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43602/self-dependence) by Romantic poet Matthew Arnold. If it sounds familiar, that's because I used another Arnold poem for the title of this fic.


	8. Chapter 8

“I am sorry to hear Lord Beresford is under the weather,” James said to Thornton as he took his seat at the round table in the parlor corner. “Francis has a head-ache to-day, also. But I thought I would visit for a little while, if you do not mind receiving me alone.”

“I see.” Thornton’s imperious expression flickered; James could not tell whether the furrow in his brow reflected curiosity or disappointment. “Please extend Sir Francis my best wishes. Will you be able to receive visitors Friday afternoon as scheduled?”

“Of course,” said James, tapping his fingertips along the edge of the table. “I am sure he will welcome a visit then.”

The silence that descended was perilously heavy.

“I shall be in London starting Wednesday,” he said, still tapping at a dark knot in the wood with his index finger. “Possibly receiving new orders.”

When James looked up, Thornton’s flint-sharp gaze had changed into a guarded, familiar expression; the sort of look one wore in the wardroom when he knew he was about to receive bad news, or impart bad news to the men.

“In truth, I do not know why I have been summoned. But an officer cannot reject a dispatch from the Secretary of the Admiralty, and so I shall go.”

Thornton inclined his head, absorbing this information. “I see.”

James gave a pedestrian sort of shrug, and turned his gaze to the curtains. It was strange to have the man’s full attention; similar to staring at a sundog. “You have no doubt heard the Admiralty is sending the fleet to bulwark at the Ottoman peninsula. I daresay they will join up with the French to protect any diplomatic efforts.”

“Mm.” Thornton moved to stand next to the bright bay window beyond the table, peering out into the expansive lawn. “Additional whispers have reached my ears concerning troop movements near Istanbul. Some of the young pups still write for further consultation.”

“Yes.” James allowed himself to smile. The young pups in question, according to Beresford, were at least three score in age if not older. “It would not be a great surprise to hear you provide excellent counsel to your men.”

“ _ Nisi ego, quis? _ ”

“Whom, indeed.” James sighed, and stretched his left arm as subtly as he dared. It had been tremulous more often in the past few weeks, not painful enough to warrant a sling, but slightly stiffer. He had resolved not to let the injury affect him, even if it was more noticeable these days. “In truth, I suppose I bear a similar attitude toward this summons.”

He also did not relish leaving Francis alone, particularly after the other night, when his true feelings had been laid bare in the moonlight. To think the man still nursed long-held fears about being so easily brushed aside. Perhaps he did not understand the depth of James’s own feelings towards him. What had he said?  _ I understand why a wife should not want to bear it?  _ Did he view James as a husband? Did he view himself as such?

“Lieutenant-General, I would ask,” he began, still dwelling on matters far too delicate to be spoken aloud, “that you look in on Sir Francis whilst I am gone. If I am truly given orders, and must away from home.”

“Lord Beresford would be amicable to such an arrangement, certainly,” said Thornton.

“Yes, I am positive he should be, but I would also—Francis tends toward severe isolation during times of great upheaval. He may not be roused from such a state by mere social events or teatime conversation.” James studied his hands as he spoke, watched his left fingers tremble against the fine-grained walnut. “If we were in London, I should turn to Sir James Ross for such assistance, but as we are not….I would ask that you, particularly, keep him company whenever you can. If it is convenient. Understandably you have your own affairs to tend, and I should not want you to interrupt any of them on my account. But it would—I would be personally grateful to know Francis is cared for in my absence, and that he does not become so melancholy. It would ease my mind considerably.”

Christ, perhaps he had said too much. James fell silent, still studying the rich color of the table beneath his hands as he awaited Thornton’s answer.

“Consider it done, Sir James,” said Thornton, after a thick silence lingered between them. “I shall attend to it personally.”

Exhaling in relief, James nodded as he absorbed the words, letting his eyes close for a half-second before returning to his usual posture. Francis would be looked after. He would have friends to comfort him in James’s absence, as was his due. And he would not be left alone at the edge of the sea. It was not much; it was not enough, but it was all James could do for now.

  
  
##  
  
  


On Tuesday, James spent considerable time in town accomplishing errands. 

Once he returned home, saddlebag laden with a wealth of ingredients, he banished Francis out of doors to make preparations for a proper birthday celebration. The rest of the day passed in a pleasant haze. He picked flowers from the overgrown fields behind the house and arranged them in a small vase on the kitchen table. He screwed his courage to the sticking place and  _ baked,  _ following Mrs. Beryl’s recipe to the letter to conjure up a charming strawberry rhubarb pie. Once the top crust of each pie had turned golden brown, he took them out of the oven and put them on the sill to cool, admiring the vibrant pink filling while cursing the unevenness of his lattice work. After that, he took a short break to rest.

By quarter past four, Francis had come back from wherever he had been, knocking at the window with a soft, pathetic query. “Am I to be barred from the house indefinitely?”

“No,” said James, keeping a weather eye on the brown stock he was now bringing to a boil, as well as the pot of water which would soon house the diced vegetables. He swiped sweat from his brow with one shirtsleeve. “You may come inside, long as you don’t look at the stove or table.”

Sighing in relief, Francis went around to the side porch and opened the door, eagerness writ on his face even as he recoiled from the blazing heat of the stove. “God’s blood, James, you’ll not condemn a man to carrot and turnip stew for his own birthday supper?”

“They are not turnips, sir.” They were; this protest was a mere diversion. “And you have already contradicted my express directive.”

“I could refrain from doing so,” Francis murmured, stepping closer to James as if to draw him in for a kiss. James batted at him with the closest serving spoon as opposed to leaning in. “If you should reward me for such behavior.”

“Your reward is the meal, sir. Go and change for supper.”

Francis made a mournful noise.

“I have already laid out your clothes,” James told him, urging him back towards their bedroom with the same spoon. “Now hist, man. Hist!”

Grumbling beneath his breath, Francis retreated.

James turned his attention back to the stove. He put the brown stock aside to simmer, and put the carrots and turnips in water to boil before turning to his beef fillets. It was short work to fry these in a pan with butter and small pieces of fat. By the time Francis returned, looking resplendent in his dark jacket and new red-and-gold waistcoat, James was ready to begin plating.

“Can I do anything?” Francis asked, hovering next to the table while James strained the sauce over the hot fillets.

“There is a bottle of  _ cidre _ in the icebox, if you should like to open it.” James put down the pot he was holding, now covered by the dirty cheesecloth. “All that remains is to drain the vegetables and arrange the plate. And for me to change into something splendid.”

Francis gave him a sidelong look. “You already look splendid.”

“Silly man.” James raised a skeptical eyebrow, even as the blunt compliment set his heart fluttering with excitement. “I have perspired through my shirtsleeves.”

“Perhaps so, but splendidly.”

This time, James allowed Francis to come closer and kiss him, sighing into the gesture for a few moments before gently disentangling himself, bracing one hand at Francis’s waist. “Just a few minutes more, and I shall return to you.”

Francis hummed out a pleased noise. “I look forward to it.”

They passed an easy hour over the course of the meal. Francis ate his fillets with gusto even if he did neglect the turnips, and he appeared pleased by the appearance of the strawberry and rhubarb pie as well as the cheeseplate and other savouries that accompanied their final course. By the time they had finished the remainders, and placed the dishes in the sink to soak, James was quite at his leisure.

“Come to the parlor once you are finished,” he instructed Francis, who was hovering at the sideboard, fingers outstretched toward the brouère as if he had decided to sneak one more piece before retiring. “I have something else for you.”

“If you must know,” called Francis to his back as James retreated, “I was quite finished! Merely wrapping the damn thing so it could be put back inside the icebox!”

Laughing, James let him be for a few minutes. But when he got to the parlor, he could not sit still. First, he turned the lamps down to achieve a soft halo of golden light. Then, he arranged their  _ cidre _ glasses on the table in a pleasing way before crossing back to the window. His fingers danced nervously over the paper-wrapped parcel in his waistcoat pocket. Quickly, he brought his hand to his face, tucking freshly-trimmed hair behind one ear just as Francis arrived.

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble today,” was all he said, as he went to sit down.

James joined him on the sofa, biting back a nervous laugh. “I would not characterize a birthday as trouble in any respect, particularly yours.”

Francis, who had been caught out mid-sip, flushed very red around the rim of his glass.

“And, since I may not be home in time to give this to you Saturday, I thought I’d better offer up my gift to you this evening.”

“James.” Francis narrowed his eyes, clearly attempting to glare and failing to achieve half his usual sharpness. “You’ve just put half the cooks at The Senior to shame. I require no more from you tonight.”

“It is not a question of what you require so much as what you deserve,” James told him softly, producing the parcel from his pocket and setting it between them on the table. “And any man deserves a gift on his birthday from those who hold him dear.”

Ducking his head to hide a visible blush, Francis reached for it. He untied the bow very carefully, then began to unfold the paper at a maddeningly-slow speed until James was forced to boff him on the wrist in retaliation.

“Within the hour, sir!”

Francis yelped in surprise and pushed James’s arm off, but not before sliding one playful hand up the inside of James’s knee, nearly to mid-thigh. James shivered and stiffened as capable fingers grazed his trouser seam.

Grinning, roguish in his mischief-making, Francis had already turned his attention back to his gift. “All right. Let’s see what you’ve done now.”

James could not stop himself from babbling as Francis pushed aside the last of the modest wrappings, and lifted the pale box lid. “If you do not like it, pay me no mind. I merely thought….well. I suppose what I thought is rather obvious.”

Biting his lip, he watched Francis stare into the box itself, as the intricately-carved face of a gold-and-silver fusee watch stared back up at him. 

James had polished the silver till it had gleamed, and had young Mister Cogsworth replace the glass, but he could not bring himself to get the mechanics repaired just yet.

“But...” Francis’ perplexed frown deepened as he lifted the watch away from its nest of pale cotton. He looked up, searching James’s gaze. “I don’t understand.”

“Do you recall how I came to have this?”

Francis shook his head no. “It is from Will. You have carried it since. That is all I know.”

James nodded. “Well. Then you shall not be surprised to hear I relayed several versions of that story, depending on the audience. In some, Will was so filled with pride at our glorious destiny that it was gifted the morning we set sail from Greenhithe; in others, it became an early token of our shared brotherhood. In truth, he and Elizabeth picked it together after they were first married, as a token of their affection. And I have never forgot Will’s words. He said,  _ Brother, set your future by this watch. _ ”

James folded Francis’s fingers back over it, pressing the silver into his palm. “It stopped on the twenty-fifth of April. Day we trekked to Victory Point.”

Francis glanced up now, understanding dawning in his eyes.

James caressed Francis’s closed fingers with his own. “And as our futures are now entwined, I would like you to keep it.” The next question remained obvious; James put it into words anyway. “Will you?”

“Yes,” rasped Francis. His hands were trembling. “I will do. And I—that is, I also wish—”

He pulled James forward, so that they balanced slightly off-kilter against the side of the loveseat; James’s chest pressed to his, and their hands clasped between them.

“Be as a husband to me, James.”

The ardor that stirred through James’s body was sudden and visceral, blinding him to all but the beautiful man before him, whose face was flushed and open, whose freckles dusted his cheeks like falling stars.

“What?”

Francis pressed closer, pulled James atop him; James could now feel the swell of his cock pressed against his right side, as well as all Francis might not say aloud.  _ I have need of you. I shall miss you. _ “In every way.”

Emboldened, delighted, James guided them up from the loveseat at once. Taking Francis firmly by the hand, and stopping only to blow out the remaining lamps, James led them back to the main bedroom. He ignored the slight twinge of stiffness in his hip as he lit the lamp on the chest of drawers, and indicated Francis should sit down on the bed.

“T’would be a poor husband who would have you strain your back on his account.”

Instead of laughing at this little joke, Francis flushed a patchy scarlet all the way down his neck, breath quickening as he met James’s eyes.

“Undress for me,” James told him. “I would see all of you tonight.”

The unspoken thread of attraction between them pulled taut once more; Francis removed his tie and began to unbutton his waistcoat, clumsy and quick, with no thought for grand seduction nor showcasing his stout, strong frame; James loved him all the more for such practicalities. By the time Francis had eased off both waistcoat and shirt, James’s earlier ardor had returned. 

Next, Francis’s hands went to the buttons of his trousers; no sooner had he wrested open the first than James stepped closer, dropping to one knee.

“Let me,” he murmured, palming Francis’s length through his trousers. Francis made a soft, breathless noise as James began to stroke him. “You have waited so patiently to-day.”

Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to Francis’s clothed thigh, relishing the hiss of breath and muffled curse that this prompted. This done, he nipped up the seam of Francis’s trousers with teeth and tongue, till Francis bucked up against his hand.

“Oh!”

James hummed out an appreciative noise as he saw the front of Francis’s trousers, where a damp patch was slowly darkening the placket. “Have you wanted me all evening?”

“Yes,” groaned Francis; this earned him a long swipe of James’s tongue against damp fabric. He leaned his weight back into braced hands, muttering, “Christ.”

“Tell me how,” James breathed, now undoing Francis’s remaining buttons, unlacing his smalls, desperate to get his mouth around that thick, proud titan once more. When he freed Francis’s prick to the air, and yanked all towards his ankles, Francis sucked in a breath.

“Not just tonight. Every moment since—the fever does not break. I wake and want you. I sleep and— _ Jaysus. _ ”

James had wasted no time, taking Francis’s length into his mouth entire, till his nose was pressed to that soft belly and the tip of him was at the back of his throat.

“Oh, god.” Francis’s hands found the sides of his hair, clutching gently at the roots. “Stay—stay there.”

James did so, until the raw ache in his throat burned from urgency; only then did he surface with a ragged gasp. He paused only to yank off his own waistcoat before bending back to his licentious task.

Francis’s arms trembled anew as James worked; after another minute, wordless, James urged him to lay back against the counterpane, relishing the speed at which his instructions were heeded. Moving up to lie between Francis’s legs, he now focused on bringing Francis’s pleasure to new heights; allowing one hand to roam up that round freckled belly to the broad, firm chest, cupping and plucking at a rose-pink nipple till Francis gasped, and his prick twitched against James’s tongue.

“Close. Close.”

Pulling off, James managed a wicked smile and sat up, keeping his hand firmly circled around the base of Francis’s straining prick. “Hm?”

“Christ, James,” Francis panted. The flush on his face had only intensified since James beheld him last; it had spread all the way to his ears and down through his chest. “I’ll not last.”

“Will you not?” whispered James, although he had thought of little else since Francis’s whispered confession in the parlor. Fucking into Francis till he spent inside him, frenzied, desperate. “I wager you could spurt untouched by now.”

“Please,” hissed Francis again, twitching in his grasp.

“All right,” James said, stroking a soothing hand across Francis’s middle before releasing his hold on Francis’s cock. “All right. I shall ready us both.”

The bedstead whined as James shifted his weight, and moved quickly to the bedside table, removing the small tin of grease from the drawer before shucking off his own trousers and linens. His shirtsleeves, meanwhile, were askew and barely-buttoned, but he left this garment alone for the moment, focusing now on slicking up his fingers. As he worked the grease around neatly-manicured nails and down his first two fingers, he watched Francis’s mouth slacken and part in anticipation. Only then did he move back down to the foot of the bed, taking the tin of grease and a pillow with him. He did not touch himself as yet, willing himself to hold out till the last possible moment.

“Bring your legs up,” he told Francis, who complied.

Slowly, he trailed slick fingers down Francis’s stomach, past his cherry-red cock and taut drawn-up stones to the inside of tensed thighs. Here, he teased abstract patterns into lambskin-soft flesh before tracing those same fingers up between Francis’s legs. Stocky thighs trembled anew as James circled Francis’s opening with the pad of one thumb, testing the give here; the pressure there. Stroking him as gently as he might have done a lady beneath her skirts, though he had never lain with a woman.

“Oh, Christ,” huffed Francis, breath quickening again. His eyes were fixed on James’s hands. 

“Yes,” murmured James; the words felt foreign and heavy in his mouth. All his lucid faculties had traveled to his fingers, and the place where their bodies would soon be connected. “There, now. I shall give you one soon.”

When he was certain Francis was ready, he gathered more grease, and eased the tip of his index finger inside; this was rewarded by a sharp choked noise, and Francis seizing the counterpane with both hands.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered, as James fought against all instinct to still his hand, “oh! That’s—”

James waited a moment longer before slowly thrusting his hand forward; Francis’s back arched, and a wild shudder rolled through his body when James grazed the tell-tale place inside him.

“All right?” Although he tried to control his movements, James’s voice came out thready and small.

“S-strong.” Francis tried to meet his gaze, but his eyes kept rolling closed, and his head lolled to one side. “Christ, ‘s good.”

Slowly, so slowly it made Francis gasp and buck his hips, James flexed his wrist, easing his finger almost all the way out only to drive it back in again, slightly harder than before.

Francis’s cock stiffened and bobbed against the air, and he clutched at the counterpane with renewed vigor.

James kept up this rhythm for several minutes, till Francis was writhing against the bed, shuddering, begging for more. More grease. Another finger. By the time he had worked the man loose and open, James was shaking slightly, too, so great was his own need.

“Now, James.” Francis, meanwhile, had become so tightly wound he looked feverish; he was tossing his head from one side to the other, and trembled so hard it seemed he might come. “Now.”

All slow, teasing elegance long gone, James fumbled for the pot of grease again, slicking up his length in earnest although he hardly needed it; he was dribbling visibly against the linens. Once this was accomplished, he crawled up the bed on hands and knees, re-positioning the pillow under Francis’s hips before surging forward and grabbing those same generous hips with greedy hands.

“Deep breath now,” he said as he lined himself up with Francis’s body, and his voice was not his own; he existed both within himself and outside himself as he pushed inside Francis for the first time. He bore in slowly, the passage made smooth by lengthy ministrations, and although he had expected the shock of cinching heat around his stiff prick, the sheer bliss of Francis opening to him like a sunflower to the noon sky had James groaning wordless praise as he bottomed out.

Francis’s breath came fast and harsh, now; his mouth was hot and red and wet and his blue eyes were dark with desire. His hands clutched fiercely at James’s sides and the soles of his feet scrabbled at the sheets, restless. “Oh, god, James. God!”

“Yes, Francis,” whispered James, and thrust up, very slightly; this elicited a whine and another frantic cant of Francis’s hips against his as they adjusted to this new position. “Yes.”

“Move,” whimpered Francis after several more seconds had passed, hips bucking up in visible desperation. “Fuck me.”

“I shall,” James promised, pulling nearly all the way out before thrusting back up; the shocked noise that tore from Francis’s throat in response was wild and sharp. “Fast and hard and—”

“Christ! Oh, Christ, how can you feel so—nnnh—”

Francis’s hands gripped his sides, now; a wave of dizzy delight overcame James as he set an easy rhythm.

“So good, Francis.” He could hardly speak; clutched him as close as possible. He wanted to lean down and kiss the quiver out of that beautiful crooked mouth, and so he did, pulling back only to say, “Such a good, pretty wife to me.”

“Fuck,” hissed Francis, trembling harder in James’s embrace.

“I would have you on your back every night if possible.” James bent down to bite at the hinge of Francis’s jaw, panting at the taste of salt and musk here as he sped up his desperate thrusts. He could have come this way easily, but he wanted to see the look in Francis’s eyes as he reached his peak, and so he pulled back, bringing both hands up to Francis’s face so they might behold each other. “Claim you and mark you where everyone should see it, so everyone knows what is mine.”

Francis’s mouth worked soundlessly; he quivered all over as their bodies moved faster together.

James was delirious with it, now.  _ His Francis. His.  _ “And anytime some person asked  _ how came you to live with Fitzjames?  _ I would have you think  _ my husband, my husband _ .”

“I do,” sobbed Francis, insensible, each forceful thrust now rippling through his body like a great wave. His fingers dug into James’s flesh. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I do.”

“Mark you and have you,” James was grunting, now, perilously close to his own release, “night after night after—”

“Give it to me.” Francis’s voice had gone high and bright. “I’ll take it; I’ll—”

“Fuck you and come in you and—”

“Sodding  _ Christ,  _ James, please,  _ please _ —”

“I’ll come in you,” James rasped again, louder, driving in fast as he could till his entire world had narrowed to the places where they were joined. His left hip ached and the dizziness in his head was all-consuming but he didn’t care, it was no more than a moment until—

Quickly, operating on instinct, he grabbed at the outside of Francis’s thigh, urging his leg higher.

Keening, Francis seized in his embrace, legs tightening urgently around James’s lower back. With a desperate whimper, he reached his crisis, spurting thick and messy between their bellies; James followed immediately after as strong muscles clamped down around his prick, milking him clean till he collapsed down against Francis’s strong body, wrung-out in hollow delight. Black spots danced in front of his eyes; weak-limbed, he surrendered to the pulsing waves of pleasure.

When he returned to himself, and summoned enough energy to raise his head, he met Francis’s lax, satisfied gaze and smiled, tracing the sweat-damp contours of Francis’s face with reverent fingers. “Are you ready?”

“Hm,” sighed Francis, head lolling to one side under the soft caress.

James pulled out with a grunt, meaning to roll off and move backwards so they could clean themselves up. He was stopped by Francis putting a hand against his upper back, broad palm warm and solid against James’s cooling skin.

“Not yet,” Francis slurred.

“You’re half asleep,” whispered James, though sleep tugged heavy at his own limbs. “Silly man.”

“Yours.” 

Francis shut his eyes, seeming to drift, and so James pillowed his head on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat as it returned to normal, and did likewise.

  
  
##  
  
  


Wednesday morning dawned cool and bright, and it was as the haze of fog was disappearing from the lower fields that James found himself awaiting the arrival of a horse and cart in the woodstove-warmed kitchen. Within the hour, young Roger had deposited him at Dover Station so James could catch the eight oh five to London St. Pancras; within four, he was in a carriage on his way to the Rosses, watching passers-by in conversation on the pavement and trying his best not to dwell on tomorrow’s meeting with Barrow.

Francis had reached for him again early this morning. The clinch which had resulted had been in stark contrast to all others they had shared. Where first there was only urgency and zeal, this morning, Francis had indulged in slow and languid tenderness, crooning soft words of praise between long kisses, then taking James into his mouth, asking shy, hushed questions of him afterward in the dawn light, such as  _ Did you like that  _ and  _ Do I please you _ ? As if such inquiries had needed voicing! James had been so jelly-limbed after releasing that he had fallen asleep a second time, and had to be plied from bed with promises of tea and toast and eggs not half an hour later, else he would have missed the train altogether. 

Tender, gentle man. James was hopelessly besotted.

The carriage drew to a halt; James glanced outside and realized they were already at Ross’s. Briskly, as the footman opened the door, he disembarked, attempting to disguise the limp in his step via speed alone as Ross emerged from the house. Dark circles ringed the man’s eyes, and he appeared slightly more disheveled than usual, but by all accounts his mood was as jolly as ever as he descended the front steps. 

“Why, it is good Farmer Fitzjames, come to ply us his country wares!”

“Ho there, sir!” James clasped Ross’s hand with gusto. “Good to see you.”

“And you, sir!” Ross directed his man to collect James’s trunk, and they went inside, stopping only so Stanton could whisk away James’s outer layers to the nearest cloakroom. “As previously stated by my lady wife, pray ignore any disturbance you may encounter within. The atmosphere of our house has become far livelier over the past fortnight.”

“Seems only natural it should do, with a small babe.”

“Natural, yes,” Ross agreed. “But rather loud and sleepless, also. Least, that is what dear Ann and our formidable Mrs. Milton are fond of saying. And as I value both my continued health and my position as master of the house, I find it best to make myself agreeable to those ladies wherever possible.”

They made their way upstairs, toward James’s usual room.

“I suppose dear Ann and your recent arrival are not yet receiving visitors?” James asked, as they reached the landing.

“If Doctor Snow should ask on the matter directly, then no. She has been confined to bed lo these past few weeks, never rising.” Here, Ross’s madcap grin turned into something small and private. “However, between you and I and the lamppost, Ann shall wish to come visit after dinner to-night. She will want to hear all about the house, and more of Frank, of course. His letters, as always, spark the liveliest conversations.”

James could not help grinning. “Do not let him hear you say such things. Francis will insist he has never written an interesting phrase in his life, and may perhaps stop the habit altogether. Then we shall all be deprived of further conversational delights until next we see him. Bon mots such as,” and here James allowed his voice to deepen and gain a knowing brogue, “ _ I’ve no patience for fine fripperies  _ or  _ wish that he’d cease such awful jabbering  _ shall become only memories to our lacking eyes.”

Ross let out an inelegant snort; it was the sort of merry exclamation James had never seen him display at an Admiralty gathering, and made him see why Ross had made such an appealing friend to Francis, all those years ago. “Tis true! By gum, man! You sound entirely like him!”

They had already arrived at the room, where James’s trunk awaited him at the foot of the freshly-made bed, the fire had been stoked, and a pitcher of clean water had been brought up and placed beside the basin.

“Well, I will leave you to get settled. Lilly shall return promptly with a cold lunch and some tea, if that suits you. And we can reconvene in another hour or two, perhaps?”

“That suits me well, I thank you.”

“Course. You will pardon such blunt manners. At the moment I am occupied with—”

A sudden, great clatter was heard downstairs, like an entire set of copper pots sent tumbling to the floor; Ross swore and leapt-to, dashing away at speed while muttering something that sounded very much like  _ Jim! _   
  
  


In the evening, as promised, the lady of the house did appear in the parlor after little Jim had been put to bed, moving slowly and with great care, and clad in a bright violet day dress stitched with orange and red blossoms. All things considered, Ann looked very well. Her face was flushed, the circles under her eyes were dark and deep, and her usually-impeccable hair was merely plaited in two tails and pinned up in a very brisk fashion, but in demeanor, she was all cheer.

“Dear Captain Fitzjames, how lovely to see you again. I am only sorry I must attend you in my wrapper and not the proper attire.”

“Nonsense, my dear. You look very well in that color.” Ross, ever the attentive husband, escorted her to her chair. “Don’t you think so, Fitzjames?”

“Absolutely,” said James, who did not need Ross’s silent, wide-eyed prodding nor his obvious tilt of the head to understand he was meant to agree, and profusely so. “Lady Ann, you are the most fashionable person in this room without doubt. Although as you are speaking to a man who has accidentally packed one of Captain Crozier’s uniform cravats instead of my own, as I discovered whilst unpacking, I may no longer be a fellow of the fashion-plates, myself.”

Ross snorted again as he deposited a glass of brandy next to his wife’s place, and thumped down upon a nearby sofa. “How hath the mighty fallen.”

They talked of the weather and other innocent topics for some time, but it was not until the lamp had burned low that Lady Ann looked to James, lowering her voice.

“Has my husband intimated at the purpose of your visit with Barrow to-morrow?”

“No,” said James, startling at the sudden turn in conversation. “But in truth, he may not know it. From the tenor of the letter I could not fully deduce what the Admiralty might wish. Whether they aim to deliver new orders, or if…” he made a vague spread-fingers gesture with his hands, indicating his own lack of knowledge. “I have heard Barrow may be poorly.”

“Yes, that is true,” Lady Ann hid a yawn behind one hand, “oh, forgive me. Poor man’s health has plagued him for some years, ever since the giddiness in the head in….well, it was whilst you and Frank were away. Eighteen forty six, perhaps? Or forty-eight. Which year was that, dear?” 

She turned to Ross, who could presently give no answer, as he had dropped off directly where he sat, and was slowly lazing sideways into the arm of the sofa, mouth slackening open.

“No matter,” said James, as he and Ann exchanged a sly, knowing look. An afternoon spent racing after Little Jim had clearly taken its toll on the man. “Perhaps we had best let him alone for now.”

“Poor man,” Lady Ann sighed, taking another sip of her brandy. “We are not usually so short-shrifted. Mister Thackeray is off visiting his mother and Jim’s usual nursery maid has got a chest cold. Not to mention Charlotte. These first weeks are never easy, e’en with a domestic. I think we had quite forgot the shock of it…. but that was not the prior topic of conversation. What was I saying, before?”

“Barrow,” prompted James.

“Yes, of course! Forgive me.” Lady Ann put down her glass. “I have not heard much on the matter from my husband, but thought perhaps you had more in your letter, and wished to ask if you had been given a destination.”

“No formal orders yet. For my part, I wonder if it will not be Crimea.”

“Truly?” She made a non-committal noise. “That would shock me greatly, given your polar command.”

“T’would,” James offered, with a quick look over at Ross, who was now pillowed face-down against the armrest, arms akimbo, with his hair falling over most of his face. He looked more like a gangly young man from this angle than a responsible husband and father. “Were it any other year, I expect Barrow should press to send men north at once. But considering war may loom on the horizon….” He trailed off, unable to voice the miasma of dread now building in his chest. It could not be north with the whole of the fleet at stake. It could not be north with so many lives at stake. “One would hope practicality trumps the Admiralty’s desire for national glory.”

Lady Ann gave him a sympathetic nod. “You are right to say so, and I quite agree. Though it has oft been my experience that practicality and the Discovery Service do not find themselves married greatly enough.”

She was not wrong. James stared into the bottom of his glass, hoping he had not badly miscalculated the situation. What if Barrow did mean to send him north? What could he do? He could not openly disdain the man who had helped him secure his first commission as a mid. And he could also not help picturing Francis’s stricken face at the kitchen table on the morning they had received Barrow’s letter. How tightly he had squeezed James’s hand, and how tremulous his voice.  _ You have a choice here. _

A raspy, prolonged snore from the sofa startled him from dark ruminations; he met Lady Ann’s amused gaze with a shocked look. So the great Ross had a few clear faults after all!

“I daresay that is our cue to retire for the evening,” she said, looking round for her bell to summon the footman. “Charlotte will have need of Mrs. Milton and I shortly, at any rate. Whereas I merely require a strong fellow to help me up from this chair.”

“Here. Allow me.” James stepped forward, and offered Ann his hand. Wordlessly, she took it, and levered herself to her feet, though she pressed a hand to her middle once she had done so, wincing. “All well?”

“Yes,” she answered, and patted his arm, relaxing slightly. “Thank you. Do not trouble yourself with getting my husband up; I shall wake him. May I trust you still know your way upstairs?”

He did, and said so; they parted with an easy goodnight. As James left the parlor, he could not help looking backward, Orpheus on the edge of freedom, catching only a glimpse of Ann’s violet wrapper in the light as she bent to shake Ross’s shoulder, saying, “To bed, darling.” 

Ross groaned in displeasure, but stirred, sitting up in a bleary-eyed manner as Ann coaxed him to rise to his feet. His hair was tangled and hung askew, and in this light he looked not so much the dashing hero as simply a man.

“Come to bed,” Ann coaxed again, “and we may rest.”

Sighing in an attempt to calm his racing heart as much as to expel his melancholy at missing Francis by his side, James retired before he could be spotted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who (like me), did not pay attention in high school Latin class, _“Nisi ego, quis?”_ is "If not I, whom?".
> 
> Chef James prepared [Fillets of Meat with Mixed Vegetables](http://recipespastandpresent.org.uk/victoriancooking/meat.php) for Francis's birthday. They drank _cidre_ , which is made from apples but is also [not cider as the English or Americans know it.](https://imbibe.com/news/comparing-apples-french-vs-english-cider/) Fun game: ask anyone from northern France about this. You'll learn quickly!
> 
> Ann's wrapper inspo is [here](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I5bBswMZYbg/TcsRb7dnexI/AAAAAAAACJM/_I7BmLl_VGI/s1600/1573.jpg). Apparently Victorian ladies could be seen inside their houses in a wrapper and white skirts during the day, but only if they announced to the entire room how they were too busy to put on a real dress.


	9. Chapter 9

James was not only delivered to Whitehall in Sir James Ross’s personal growler, but at the appointed time of his meeting with Barrow, was present in the infamous waiting room itself no less, shaking hands and making idle chatter with all and sundry in full uniform. He had forgotten the sweltering heat of these layers in locations other than the Arctic. Dark wool and gold epaulettes weighed heavy on his frame, as did the KCB insignia and his medals from Shangkiang. But he did not have long to dwell on these small discomforts, as a servant appeared and beckoned him in.

The last time he had come to the Admiralty, he had been in full dress uniform awaiting his formal promotion, and found four others present upon entering the Council’s chambers: both younger and elder Rosses, Sir George Back and Rear Admiral Sir Edward Parry. As Parry was once Barrow’s star protegé, Barrow’s absence from this event was noted but not unduly felt. It could have been accounted for by his disgust for John Ross or George Back as much as any true health concern. 

To-day, the room felt overlarge, not least because the only other occupant present appeared hunched and waxen within his usual uniform. Barrow sat alone in an imposing wingback chair next to the fireplace, appearing less a fearsome titan of fate than some ailing relic of a past society, left to haunt Whitehall’s corridors as might one of Mister Dickens’ frightful spirits.

James met Barrow’s clouded, pinched glare with no small amount of shock, but e’en as his heartbeat skittered and leapt in his chest, he faced this prospect with a strong chin.

“Sir John,” he said, and bowed, drawing himself to attention. “Forgive me. I did not mean to keep you waiting.”

“You,” said Barrow, voice quavering with the vibrato of age, “are late.”

James did not point out the obvious, instead hoping to smooth over the introductions with good cheer. “My apologies, Sir John.”

“Sit,” Barrow gestured roughly to the chair nearest him, as if James were a particularly disobedient lapdog instead of a Captain in good standing. But James knew if Barrow had not offered him a seat, it would mean he had fallen far from favour indeed. “Drink.”

“I—” protested James, though the footman had already materialized next to Barrow’s left hand, dropping off a glass of port before crossing to give a second to James. “Well. I thank you.”

“So we shall toast,” Barrow’s voice, far from pleased, was bored, acidic, as if this were a mere and rather boring courtesy to be extended before delivering his news. “To Her Majesty’s Empire.”

James bit back the instinctual words on his tongue, swallowing both bloody war and sickly season. “Hear, hear.”

Barrow only sipped at his port, scowling as he set it aside. A servant whisked it away immediately; apparently it was so distasteful that it could not even remain as a reminder. Demosthenes had better appreciated the taste of the reed-poison.

“Now,” said Barrow, as a ghoulish slash of a smile split his face, “Sir James, I am sure the timing of our meeting has not escaped your notice. The Board has given you ample time to recover your health in the wake of your previous expedition.”

James’s stomach plummeted at the phrasing.  _ Previous  _ expedition. Not final. But as always, he was expected to answer, and so he cleared his throat. “Yes, I, ah. Am grateful for their longstanding consideration.” He gestured to his chest, trying to ignore the rabbiting of his heartbeat. “As you see, sir, I am very well.”

“Naturally,” Barrow continued, a wet phlegmy cough muffling his first few words. “Of course, I am of an excellent constitution, myself. Why, I have not even the need for spectacles nor a cane.”

In the past, a younger, more desperate James should have agreed heartily with such a contradictory statement, or perhaps offered up fawning praise.  _ Sir John, did not you not go a half century without need of a doctor? Your constitution is powerful strong, indeed. No one could ever doubt your tremendous fortitude.  _

This James, the anxious, tired man who yearned for an answer as to his pending fate, could not muster up such glowing, undeserved praise. Instead, he merely said, “Putting aside all discussions of your good health, sir, I was not wholly surprised to receive your summons. Particularly given the situation in Crimea.”

Barrow made a contemptuous noise. “You ought not concern yourself with such trivialities.”

Dread settled heavy in James’s stomach. “Of course, Sir John. I only ask as I was of the belief that the Admiralty is sending the fleet to the Ottoman peninsula even now.”

“A decision has indeed been made, but as you are neither an Admiral nor a warship commander, it is unwise to dwell on it.”

Steeling his nerves, James contradicted the man for perhaps the first time in many years. “Given the timing of our appointment, sir, you may understand why such decisions should linger in my mind.”

Barrow stared at him, his once moon-shaped face now jowled by age and the ravages of ill health. Suddenly, he laughed; it was a terrible, abrasive sound, full of bile and derision. James had never heard the man truly laugh, and now wished never to hear it again.

“You did not think we should waste your promotion on the Tsar?”

“Well,” sputtered James, coloring in embarrassment and hoping it was not unduly noticed, “given everything—news of war often changes one’s best-laid plans, Sir John. I did not know—I could not be certain—”

“No, Sir James,” Barrow said, putting extra emphasis on James’s title. “The Board has ruled. You shall lead Discovery Corps to the polar sea’s furthest frontier.”

James sat taller in his seat.  _ Do not let him see you falter.  _ “It is—the Passage, then?”

“Naturally. Why should a Captain of your rank not wish to attain the Passage, particularly when you have perhaps sailed farther toward our goal than any English explorer?” asked Barrow, all humour gone from his flint-sharp gaze. “Perhaps you mistake me. Is this great commission not to your  _ liking _ ?”

The dread that had lingered earlier in James’s chest now pressed insistently in the back of his throat. “Of course I recognise this offer is an esteemed honour, and a fine opportunity to advance the goals of Discovery Service.”

Barrow’s eyes narrowed. “But you will make no answer now.”

“If it pleases the Board,” James said, careful to the last, “I would think on this matter a few days more before giving my final reply.”

In years past, Barrow would perhaps have taken such an answer in its stride, offering a snide remark offsides or perhaps an injurious stroke of the pen which belayed his true feelings on the subject. To-day, he had no compunctions of voicing his true opinion. 

Before James could react appropriately, Barrow’s bony, death-pale hand closed painfully over his sleeve, vise-taut. “Do you truly think me such a sapskull, boy?” His rancid breath fanned across James’s face. “Have you no mien of my dominion, e’en within these chambers?”

“I—” James’s breath came fast.  _ He has taken leave of his senses.  _ “Well, of course I—”

“It was I who last saw Admiral Lord Nelson before he departed for Trafalgar. I who suggested Napoleon’s exile on Saint Helena. I who have presided over this body for a clear half century!”

“No man alive would argue your power here, Sir John,” said James, not breaking Barrow’s hold on his arm. “Nor should they deny the risk inherent within Discovery Service. What I do not wish unduly—what I should hope the Board comprehends by extending such a command—is the potential for further loss of good Englishmen in wartime.”

“What care I,” said Barrow icily, still grasping James’s arm, “about the  _ stinking _ Crimea? I would sooner see a hundred thousand men speared by Tartars than give up the Empire’s shining chance at immortality. Better to have ten officers perish on the ice in service of Her Majesty’s glory than die in filthy ignominy among a horde.”

Controlling his ragged breathing, James bit the inside of his cheek as he considered how best to argue this point. Was this how he might have behaved, had he sided with Francis on that fateful day in  _ Erebus’s  _ wardroom? Had he argued against Sir John instead of merely playing the part of a likeable Second? “Sir, you may dislike such grave reasoning, but surely the Board understands the source of my concerns. If I am bade do this—if I am to be tasked with the responsibility of an expedition entire....” He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, and made silent apologies for what he was about to say next. “With all due respect, it would not be as another John Franklin. Lauded publicly for the glory of the Empire yet derided for clear weaknesses in private, assumed never to return.”

After a short silence, Barrow withdrew his hand. James forced himself not to flex his gloved fingers. “You are no natural sailor, to be sure, but neither are you too old for command nor mentally unfit.”

Bitter, but on its face a shining compliment. James said nothing.

Barrow summoned over one of the footmen with a snap of his fingers, indicating the visit was now concluded. “If you must, see Richardson before you go, and he will write your certificate.”

Thus, James found himself dismissed, walking out of Barrow’s chambers in as deep a stupor as if he had been press-ganged into service. He knew not what to do now. Francis would have known. Francis would have shouted, and been castigated for such temper, and shouted any detractors down again, insisting on the wrongness of it all.  _ Better to have ten officers perish on the ice than…. _ Christ, Barrow had gone utterly mad. Perhaps he had always been mad for the glory of the thing, and James had simply not noticed. Chosen not to notice—seen only what was convenient—only what would serve his own ambitions.

His feet carried him toward the surgical office even as his troubled thoughts remained. He was sweating, now; and had to mop at his brow with his handkerchief to keep from appearing completely out of sorts. Had the walk to the surgery always been so lengthy? Had his pulse always raced so furiously, as if he were running pell-mell along the shale, pursued by the Tuunbaq itself? The usual fluttering in his chest now felt sickening instead of comforting—his breaths came harsh and shallow—what on earth was—he would sit down as soon as he arrived—he would remain standing just a little longer.

“Captain Fitzjames?” came a dim voice.

James turned, even as his peripheral vision shadowed, but he could get no words out, and in a blink, the blackness consumed him.

  
##  
  
  


“Sir Francis? It is your move.” 

Sighing, Francis pulled his attention away from the parlor window, and turned back to the Lieutenant-General. It had been kind of the man to stop by today, knowing James was still in London, and kinder still to come bearing gifts. Francis’s present, the wooden board in front of them still gleamed with polish, as did the pieces, whereas James’s gift—the still-christened Two—was now lounging in front of the fireplace, sleeping his puppy-slumber after a half-hour of fetch in the fields, paws twitching in mid-air.

“Sorry. Let me see….” he moved a piece without truly thinking on his strategy, merely wishing for his turn to be ended. “There.”

“You wish for me to seize your queen outright? When a bishop or knight could have easily blocked such folly?”

“Er,” said Francis, and sighed again. He was doing poorly today, if Thornton was having to instruct him like a schoolchild. “Well, no. I suppose I could—”

The incomplete thought was drowned out by the sudden stamp of hooves against gravel; Francis had no sooner wondered at the source of the noise than he saw one of Carter’s boys galloping up the drive, barely stopping to tie his horse to the post before sprinting up toward the front steps, loudly calling, “Sir Francis! Sir Francis!”

“What in heaven’s name?” murmured the Lieutenant-General.

Francis was already rushing to the door, flinging it open just as the boy stumbled up onto the porch. “Here, sir,” he gasped, shoving a small envelope into Francis’s hand—a telegram. “It is Sir James.”

Hurriedly, Francis ripped it open. The message was from Ross:

_ Fitzjames collapsed at Whitehall STOP Doctor with him now STOP It is his heart STOP Come at once. _

“No,” breathed Francis, as the paper dropped from his hands.

_ Fitzjames, stumbling in harness in his slops, barely lucid as they hauled him up from the shale. His gansey wet with fresh blood _ —

_ Fitzjames, his good eye ringed with red and his teeth gory from the rot, grimacing up at him from the safety of the sledge. It’ll make your Chinese sniper story a half-hour longer. _

_ Fitzjames, corpse-pale and clammy in a sweat-soaked bag, staring up at him as his breath rattled in his chest. Francis. Kiss me before I— _

_ “No,”  _ said Francis again, more insistent this time; he could not be sure if he had merely murmured the word or if he had screamed it at quarterdeck volume; his chest felt as taut as a main line, his eyes seared, he could not breathe—he could not—James could not possibly—

Someone else was speaking: 

“.... ride to Thornford, find Frost, and tell him to send the clarence here at once, along with my club bag. We ride for London immediately. Once you have done this, return to the postmaster and send a reply to Sir James Ross by way of this address, saying that Sir Francis shall arrive before the morning. These are matters of life and death. Do you mark me?”

“Yes,” gasped the boy, and raced back to his horse.

By the time Francis realized the horse and rider were galloping away down the lane, toward Thornford, he also realized he had slumped backwards against the whitewashed planks, weak-kneed and unable to speak.

“Sir Francis?”

_ If he dies, I shall put a bullet through my head. _

“Sir Francis!”

He could not respond. Two, who had been roused by the commotion, now nosed around Francis’s legs, whining, licking at his fingers; absently, Francis petted the dog’s head till some portion of the fog receded from his brain, and his hands stopped shaking so violently. Then, he glanced up. The Lieutenant-General still stood in the open doorway, peering down at him with hawkish concern.

“We go to London,” Francis finally rasped.

“Yes,” replied Thornton, consulting his pocketwatch. “The clarence should be here within the half hour.”

Francis nodded, and attempted to regain his bearings. “Good.”

Exhaling, he stood up, walking to one edge of the porch and then the other, bracing both hands behind his head in an attempt to calm his breathing as he paced. After a short interval, the carriage arrived. One footman darted up to the Lieutenant-General, making a lengthy report of which Francis caught no detail. Another nipped inside the house, remained there for several minutes, and eventually exited with Francis’s rucksack, as well as the brass key which had been hanging by the side door.

“Shall I lock up for you, sir?”

Francis was too surprised to answer otherwise. “Er. Yes.”

Before long, they were ushered into the carriage, and were on their way.

The ride was at once interminable and fantastically brief. Francis could not mark a destination nor keep track of their progress. He thought they stopped to change horses after a few hours, long after nightfall, but the route and exact distance remained lost on him. He could do nothing but stare out the window at the blur of shadowed trees and fields, cursing himself for not being with James, for not seeing some sign of illness. How could it be his heart, when he could work in the garden for hours at a time, especially when young Roger was there to assist? How could a man as remarkable as James—as strong as James—be felled by something so insipid as a bad heart? He could not. Francis would not believe it. He would not.

“You should eat something.” Lieutenant-General Thornton had pulled some bit of dried meat from a basket, consuming this quickly but somehow elegantly. “We will not make Blackheath for perhaps two hours yet.”

Once again, Francis was reminded of the damned corvids. His stomach roiled from the thought of food, but he tried to convey his thanks through a weak smile. “Better not.”

He turned to the window, intending to woolgather at length, but just as quickly, glanced back toward the Lieutenant-General. “Is—is Lord Beresford going to be all right?”

Thornton’s brows contracted; e’en by the moonlight, he appeared nonplussed. “What?”

“Well, it—you mentioned he had been unwell, and given his age, I thought… at least, I hoped that he was… that he was not in a bad way.”

“It is a head cold,” said Thornton, slowly but not unkindly, as if he were a Captain reminding a ship’s boy of a very obvious fact. “That is all.”

“Oh,” said Francis, clenching his jaw in an attempt to stop himself from making another stupid remark. He wished he had said nothing at all.

“He is cautious of them, as you have observed, but there is no true cause for alarm.” Thornton let out a sigh; the noise startled Two, who had pillowed his head on Francis’s leg, into glancing up. “It is kind of you to inquire after him.”

Two laid back down on Francis’s leg, but only after pawing at his stilled hand.

Sighing, Francis resumed petting the creature, brushing idly at silky ears and the little tuft of white around his left shoulder till the sharp fear from before simmered down to a dull ache. He must have dozed, or perhaps slept in earnest, as next he knew the carriage was slowing to a stop, and the bluish glint of moonlight had faded to a dull violet-black. 

Startling awake, he glanced around; saw the park to his left, and two stableboys in the drive to their right, motioning the horses forward. Yes, this was Ross’s; there was the carriage-house, already open and awaiting them. There was the bay window of the main parlor—the purple flowers lining the walkway—and upstairs, James.

He wrestled his door open before the footman had even jumped down from the top, ignoring Thornton’s sharp “Sir Francis!” as well as Two’s yip of surprise. Rushing to the door, he knocked several times, smashing the meat of his fist into the door in quick desperation until one of Ross’s men opened it—and then he promptly shoved past the lad.

“Wh—Captain Crozier!” squawked the footman, but Francis did not stop, seeking the way by instinct now: starboard for the back stairs, then up and up and up until his injured foot throbbed from the impact and he was out of breath, sweating under his heavy coat as he burst out onto the landing and down the hallway. The second guest room was shut up, but there were voices in Francis’s usual quarters, and orange light filtering in through a half-askew door; he flew to it, dreading what he might see there—heart in his mouth and pulse thundering in his neck and hands and—

“Hark, doctor,” came a raspy, soft murmur as Francis skidded to a stop, bracing himself against the wall to keep from barreling into it face-first, “‘tis the tread of my favourite ship’s cat, my old captain.”

Abed in a nightshirt, looking pale and drawn under the counterpane but somehow still dazedly amused, was James, grinning up at Francis as if he had done no more than wake up from a particularly feverish dream. Next to him stood a spindly young doctor wearing a pince-nez, currently holding James’s right wrist: taking his pulse.

“You ought not to joke so freely, Sir James,” said the doctor, irritably, as if they had spent the entire evening this way. “Men of weaker constitutions have been felled by far less than irregular heart rhythms.”

“Hm,” James waved away this comment with his free hand, and held Francis’s gaze. “Perhaps they heard my Chinese sniper story. According to reliable sources, it is five hours long if it is a minute, and so interminable that it sends otherwise healthy men reeling toward a swift and merciless end.”

“ _ James _ ,” hissed Francis, as a wellspring of grateful furious tears rose in his eyes; heedless, he stumbled forward, tossing down his coat to the floor before kneeling at James’s bedside, grasping for his free hand and pressing it between both of his before burying his face into the blankets, overcome. Only after several minutes, once Francis raised his head and realized the doctor had left them alone, did he dare to catch James’s eye. 

James’s soft, fond frown was apologetic. A tear track glimmered on one sharp cheek. “Dear man. I have frightened you.”

“I’m all right,” Francis managed, clearing his throat, “if—if you are, also.”

“Well,” James sighed, managing to sound both aggrieved and embarrassed in the same breath, “apart from faintness, it seems I may add one last adventure story to my repertoire. The K who survived intermittence. It has got me out of another journey North, at least.”

“Don’t,” implored Francis, but he traced over the back of James’s palm with reverent fingers, relishing the warmth and life in this familiar hand—relishing the visible sheen of sweat on James’s brow and cheeks, and his lanky, unstyled hair, with its remnants of massacar oil smeared across the pillowcases. “James, I-I should have—I ought not have—”

“Hush, love,” murmured James, stilling Francis’s hands with the flat of his palm. “You are here now, and that is all that matters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Crimean War](https://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/battles/crimea/) was well underway in September 1853, although the British weren't yet involved. Historically, after Barrow's death, the Admiralty had also decided they had other priorities apart from Finding The Passage, not least bc most of the sanctioned Franklin rescue expeditions went down like lead balloons.
> 
> Apparently, you can develop certain types of arrhythmia via potassium loss and physical stress even if you are not predisposed to heart conditions. Alteration of the rhythms of the heart also happens to be one of the few heart issues that was a) [recognizable in Victorian London](https://books.google.com/books?id=h5tinQEACAAJ&pg=PA127&source=gbs_toc_r&cad=4#v=onepage&q&f=false) as well as b) included in [a list of What Could Get You Medically Discharged From The Navy.](https://www.pdavis.nl/Q52.htm) Stress-related arrhythmia it is. Intermittence is a Victorian name for the bad kind of ventricular arrhythmia where your heart beats ineffectively for no reason. ANYWAY. As always, I am #NotADoctor.


	10. Chapter 10

_ six weeks later _

  
  


“Francis, I can  _ walk _ , thank you.”

Ascending from the hansom with a black-and-silver walking stick, his blue wool coat now snug and warm as opposed to stifling, James still accepted Francis’s outstretched hand for support. The driver seemed not to notice nor care about this as he unloaded their bags. Triton,  _ neé  _ Two, seemed to care very much for the outdoors. He had no sooner emerged from the hansom than went galloping off toward the rose bushes, barking madly.

Well. They would see him again at suppertime, or perhaps in another hour once he got bored of sniffing at weeds.

James still waited till the driver urged the horses forward before proceeding up to the porch, leaning heavily on Francis’s arm the entire way. This was mainly subterfuge, but he could not bring himself to mind playing the invalid when it meant Francis would put his free arm around his back as they walked. Shielding him from the worst of the world as well as the worst of any gradual incline.

“Are you all right?” Francis asked, as James ascended the first step.

“Darling, I am walking, not scaling a wall.”

“Well, you’re still climbing,” Francis pointed out, as James reached the second and then final stair, pausing a moment to re-adjust his coat.

“And I am certainly allowed to climb, sir, or to walk as I please. Long as it does not provoke tachycardia.” 

Before he could move forward, James found his legs stripped out from under him, his side pressed to Francis’s strong chest, and Francis’s arms hefting him up around the shoulders and knees.

“Good lord!” cried James, now grasping tightly at Francis’s neck. “Francis, I am not the  _ Pietá _ !” 

“Oh, save your pride for the next dance,” Francis grumbled, proceeding through the open doorway. “The door’s open anyway.”

“Yes, and I don’t recall asking to be bustled through it like a little brown-haired bride!”

They were already inside, but Francis had stopped walking. His chest rose and fell in a way that indicated he was taking a purposeful deep breath. “What?”

“Well, it’s tradition, technically,” James pointed out, quiet. “As well as convenient in this case.”

“.....I suppose it is.”

Francis walked toward the chesterfield, but before he could deposit James down onto the cushions, James turned his head, nosing against the warm column of Francis’s throat so he could murmur into his ear, all while keeping his arms clasped close around Francis’s shoulders. “Look how strong my husband is—how charmingly he carries me into our new home. _ ” _

The stutter of breath this provoked meant Francis was trying not to laugh. “James.”

“You are,” James said, a smile overtaking his voice. “And you have.”

Francis put him down, gently transferring James’s weight to the cushions but leaving his arms wrapped around James’s shoulders and legs. “Is this to be our home, then? Outright?”

James could hear the question inherent in the query.  _ Shall we stay here for as long as we please? Shall we live here till we are old and stooped _ — _ together? _

“I should like that.” James pulled back to look at Francis’s face, traced the rising blush in those craggy cheeks with the pad of one finger. “Francis, I should like that very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S OVER.
> 
> Thank you to all the Terror Big Bang peeps! Thank you to **brainyraccoons** for being the best damn artist on this epic project! Thank you to **dozmuffinxc** for the beta, and to **Priestly** and **MasterofAllImagination** for letting me rant about Timelines!!! and Character Plot Points at weird hours.


End file.
